o 


B    3    3E 


B  E  P  '•'  c.  (    r:  Y 

[  LIBRARY 

1     UNIVERSITY  OF 
\CALIFORNIA 


LITTLE   STORIES  OF   QUEBEC. 


MADAME  LEPINE, 


LITTLE  STORIES 
OF  QUEBEC 


By 

JAMES  EDWARD  LE  ROSSIGNOL 


DECORATIONS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  LAURA  MILLER 


CINCINNATI:    JENNINGS    AND    GRAHAM 
NEW    YORK:     EATON    AND     MAINS 


COPYRIGHT  1908 

BY 
JENNINGS  &  GRAHAM 


TO  MY  FRIEND, 
JOHN  LEWIS  DAY. 


581 


CONTENTS. 

I.  THE  POOR  OF  THIS  WORLD,  13 

II.  FATHER  GRANDMAISON,       -  27 

III.  THE  PEACEMAKER,  51 

IV.  THEOPHILE,  71 
V.  THE  EXILE,  115 

VI.  THE  MISER,        -----     143 


I. 

THE  POOR  OF  THIS  WORLD. 


THE  POOR  OF  THIS  WORLD. 

1. 

MADAME  LEPINE  sat  alone  at  the  window  of 
No.  62  Rue  du  Bon  Secours  in  the  suburb  of 
St.  Sauveur  de  Quebec,  knitting  industriously, 
but  at  the  same  time  gazing  intently  down  the 
street.  It  was  near  the  hour  of  eight  in  the 
evening,  but  the  long  northern  twilight  had  not 
yet  begun  to  darken  the  little  room.  At  eight 
o'clock  precisely  Philippe  would  come.  For 
had  they  not  been  married  the  week  before, 
and  was  not  Philippe  since  three  days  foreman 
in  the  great  shipyard  of  Thibeaudeau  Freres,  and 
was  it  not  his  privilege  to  leave  the  yard  at  half- 


past  seven  every  evening 
during  this  whole  month 
of  June?  It  was  two  miles, 
the  distance,  but  he  would 
be  with  his  dear  Belvine  at 
eight  o'clock  without  fail. 
She  would  have  dinner 
ready  for  him.  It  was 
ready  now.  After  that 
they  would  go  to  walk  on 
the  Esplanade. 

Her  fair  face  lighted  up 
as  his  step  sounded  in  the 
distance.  Her  dark  eyes 
brightened,  they  even  glis 
tened  as  she  saw  him  com 
ing  round  the  corner.  She 
met  him  at  the  door.  They 
greeted  one  another  with 
a  kiss.  Together  they  sat 
down  to  their  frugal  meal. 
There  was  only  soupe  aux 
pois  and  bread  for  the 


first  course,  and  wild  strawberries  and  bread 
for  the  second,  but  it  was  enough.  They  were 
not  rich.  They  had  nothing  but  Philippe's 
daily  wage.  They  had  no  relations  living. 
They  were  alone,  they  two,  in  the  world. 
But  that  was  no  trouble.  It  was  enough  that 
they  were  together.  So  Belvine  said  and  so 
said  also  Father  Grandmaison,  the  little  cure  of 
St.  Sauveur.  St.  Sauveur  was  not  a  rich  par 
ish  as  it  is  now,  and  Father  Grandmaison  lived 
in  a  very  little  house.  He,  too,  was  poor,  but 
he  was  their  friend.  He  had  gotten  Philippe 
his  place  at  the  shipyard.  He  would  also  find 
sale  for  all  the  stockings  and  sashes  and  tuques 
that  Belvine  might  knit.  For  each  piece  she 
would  get  two  sous  more  than  any  other 
woman  in  Quebec,  she  could  knit  so  well. 

All  was  prosperous.  There  was  no  trouble ; 
that  is,  there  was  only  one.  There  is  always 
one  little  trouble  to  keep  us  from  being  too 
happy.  It  was  a  debt.  It  was  not  a  large 
debt;  only  three  pounds  and  five  shillings.  It 
had  been  more  than  that,  but  Belvine  had 


'-, 


paid  already  two  pounds  and  ten  shillings,  her 
savings  for  three  years,  while  she  had  been 
domestic  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  rich  men 
of  St.  Sauveur.  It  was  for  her  trousseau,  of 
course.  That  was  necessary.  Also  Philippe 
had  bought  a  new  coat  for  the  ceremony.  It 
was  the  debt  of  both  and  both  would  pay  it. 
The  great  house  of  Laviolette  et  Fils  would 
wait.  M.  Laviolette  himself  had  said  so.  "I 
trust  you,  mademoiselle, "  he  had  said.  "  I  knew 
your  father.  He  was  a  good  man.  And  Phil 
ippe,  too,  he  has  the  heart  of  gold."  Ah,  those 
words  !  How  they  did  cheer  the  soul !  Yes, 
they  would  pay  very  soon,  perhaps  in  two 
months. 

At  dinner  they  talked  it  all  over,  but  when 
they  went  to  walk  on  the  Esplanade  they  forgot 
all  but  the  happiness  of  being  together.  The 
band  played  so  beautifully.  The  soldiers 
looked  so  fine  in  their  red  coats  and  tall  bea 
vers.  The  neighbors  smiled  on  them  and 
wished  them  good  luck.  What  could  be  bet 
ter  in  this  world?  Ah,  the  happiness  of  that 


hour !  Could  they  ever  for 
get  it?  They  never  did 
forget  it. 

2. 

"Belvine,"  said  Father 
Grandmaison,  "we  must 
be  reconciled  to  the  will 
of  God.  My  child,  he  is 
a  God  of  love.  The  good 
God  brings  sorrow,  but  it 
is  for  our  good." 

Thus  spoke  the  little 
cure,  with  trembling  voice, 
while  Belvine  knelt  at  the 
bedside  in  grief  too  deep 
for  tears.  Something  had 
happened  at  the  shipyard, 
some  accident,  it  was  hard 
to  tell  what,  but  Philippe 
had  been  brought  home 

O 

unable  to  move.  Even  so 
his  father  and  his  grand- 


II 


7 


father  had  been  brought 
home  to  die.  But  Philippe 
was  not  to  die;  so  said  the 
apothecary,  M.  Leclair. 

"He  will  live,"  said  M. 
Leclair,  "  but  he  will  never 
walk  again.  It  is  paraly 
sis,  my  dear  M.  le  Cure. 
That  is  all  I  can  say. 
There  is  nothing  to  do.'' 

Ah,  the  sinking  of  the 
heart  when  such  a  sorrow 
comes !  Philippe  would 
not  die,  but  would  he  ever 
speak  to  her  again?  would 
his  eyes  ever  shine  again 
with  the  light  of  love? 
She  could  not  think.  The 
shadow  of  a  great  dark 
ness  had  come  upon  the 
little  home.  No.  62  Rue  du 
Bon  Secours  would  never 
be  the  same  again. 


M- 


Day  after  day  she  watched  by  the  bedside 
of  the  man  she  loved.  Day  after  day  came 
the  good  cure  with  words  of  comfort.  Phil 
ippe  would  not  die,  no  indeed.  She  could  see 
him  improve  from  day  to  day.  Back  to  his 
great  brown  eyes  came  the  love-light  she  had 
so  longed  to  see.  For  many  days  he  could 
only  look  his  love  and  gratitude,  for  he  could 
not  speak.  Then  after  many  days  he  began 
to  speak.  Philippe  then  could  tell  Belvine 
what  he  had  been  thinking  all  these  long  days. 
There  was  joy  in  No.  62  Rue  du  Bon  Secours. 
The  good  God  had  not  forgotten  them.  From 
the  face  of  the  dear  Christ  above  the  fireplace 
a  smile  of  benediction  seemed  to  come. 

By  and  by  Philippe  could  crawl  about  the 
house,  just  a  little,  that  was  all.  There  was 
never  any  more  improvement.  There  never 
would  be  any,  said  M.  Leclair.  So  they  gave 
up  that  hope.  But  there  was  love  in  their 
lives  and  they  were  happy. 

It  is  true  Philippe  could  not  work,  and 
poverty  was  to  be  their  lot  for  many  years. 


It  is  also  true  that  they  did  not  need  much. 
There  was  no  rent;  M.  Thibeaudeau  had  seen 
to  that.  Then  Belvine  was  always  knitting, 
and  there  was  always  a  good  price  for  those 
thick,  warm  stockings  and  sashes  and  tuques. 
The  good  cure  had  seen  to  that.  So  they  were 
happy,  more  happy  than  they  had  thought 
possible. 

Thus  the  years  passed  away,  many  years. 
For  such  lives  the  present  is  more  than  the 
past,  and  the  future  is  nothing.  Three 
memories  only  remained  ever  with  them. 
There  was  the  memory  of  the  day  when  they 
stood  before  the  altar  and  Father  Grandmaison 
pronounced  the  words  that  made  them  man 
and  wife  before  the  world  and  before  God.  Then 
there  was  the  dreadful  memory  of  that  day  of 
sadness,  when  to  Belvine  it  seemed  as  though 
the  light  of  life  had  gone  out  forever.  And 
last,  and  every  day  present,  was  the  memory 
of  that  debt.  Every  year  was  begun  in  the 
expectation  that  the  end  of  twelve  months 
would  see  all  paid.  Every  day  commenced 


with  the  hope  of  an  ex 
tra  sou  toward  the  final 
liquidation.  But  it  was 
not  possible.  Something 
would  always  swallow  up 
the  cherished  savings  of 
the  past.  Day  after  day 
and  year  after  year  came 
and  went,  and  still  the 
one  great  hope  remained 
unfulfilled.  Yet  it  was  a 
hope,  and  one  that  gave 
to  Belvine  and  to  Philippe 
great  comfort  in  the  hour 
of  darkness. 

Thus  they  lived  in  peace 
ful  simplicity  for  thirty- 
five  years.  Then  the  end 
came.  Philippe  lay  dying. 
Father  Grandmaison,  now 
an  aged  man  and  feeble, 
held  his  hand  and  adminis 
tered  to  him  the  bread  of 


life.  Belvine,  gray-haired 
now,  but  beautiful  still, 
even  with  the  calm  beauty 
of  a  long  and  peaceful 
life,  knelt  at  the  bedside. 
Stricken  she  was  with 
grief,  sad  at  heart  she  was, 
but  amid  the  sorrow  there 
was  hope.  The  separation 
would  not  be  long.  She 
would  see  Philippe  again 
when  all  was  over. 

"My  son,"  said  the 
priest,  "  think  of  the  good 
God." 

"  Father,"  said  Philippe, 
"if  that  debt  were  only 
paid." 

Belvine  rose  from  her 
knees  and  left  the  room. 
Immediately  she  returned 
and  laid  on  the  table  a 
parcel  in  brown  paper. 


Inside  of  this  there  were  smaller  parcels  of 
little  silver  coins — threepences  and  sixpences, 
with  five  and  ten-cent  pieces  of  the  new 
coinage.  There  lay  her  savings  for  thirty- 
five  years.  Not  a  word  had  she  said  about  it 
to  Philippe  in  all  that  time,  hoping  for  a 
grand  surprise. 

"And  now!  Philippe,"  she  said,  "it  is  all 
there,  all  but  one  shilling,  twenty  cents  in  the 
new  money." 

It  was  twenty  years  since  the  new  money 
had  been  introduced. 

"  You  see,  dear,  it  will  soon  be  paid,  perhaps 
in  one  month."  Philippe's  eyes  glistened. 
Father  Grandmaison  was  a  man  of  judgment 
and  did  not  offer  to  make  up, the  balance  of 
that  heroic  account. 

"Let  us  thank  God,  my  children,"  he  said, 
and  it  was  not  in  Latin  that  the  good  cure 
prayed.  While  he  prayed,  the  good  God  re 
ceived  the  soul  of  poor,  no,  of  rich  Philippe. 
Beholding  the  translation  the  two  friends  re 
joiced  through  their  tears. 


The  debt  was  paid;  that  is,  Belvine  now 
holds  a  receipt  in  full  from  the  heirs  of  M. 
Laviolette,  long  since  gone  to  the  rest  of  the 
faithful.  With  much  trouble  at  last  Belvine 
found  one  of  the  heirs  and  thus  communicated 
with  the  rest,  now  scattered  far  and  wide. 
They  retained  the  honorable  spirit  of  their 
father. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  him,"  they  wrote, 
"  that  he  might  have  canceled  the  debt  before 
he  died?  We  will  do  as  our  father  would 
have  done."  And  this  is  the  quittance  they 
sent  to  Belvine: 

"The  heirs  of  the  estate  Laviolette  recog 
nize  with  great  satisfaction  the  honorable 
conduct  of  M.  and  Mme.  Lepine  in  regard  to 
the  debt  of  three  pounds  and  five  shillings, 
contracted  so  many  years  ago,  and  hereby 
declare  the  obligation  discharged  in  full." 


II. 

FATHER  GRANDMAISON. 


\ 


^ 


FATHER  GRANDMAISON, 


FATHER  GRANDMAISON. 

1. 

FATHER  GRANDMAISON  was  a  good  man  and  a 
faithful  priest,  yet  he  was  possessed  by  a  worldly 
ambition,  an  ambition  that  for  many  years  had 
taken  away  his  peace,  and  at  times  seemed  to 
obscure  the  face  of  God.  This  ambition  belonged 
not  to  the  good  father  as  an  individual,  but  as  a 
member  of  a  family,  which,  though  bearing  a 
great  name  and  justly  claiming  an  honorable 
history,  had  for  three  hundred  years  inhabited 
the  dwellings  of  the  humble.  It  had  not  always 
been  thus,  for  tradition  had  it  that  in  former 
times,  in  far-away  Brittany,  the  family  of  Grand- 


maison  had  derived  their 
name  from  a  manor-house 
of  noble  proportions,  where 
for  untold  centuries  had 
dwelt  in  feudal  splendor 
the  distinguished  ances 
tors  of  the  obscure  cure  of 
St.  Sauveur  de  Quebec. 
Throughout  ten  genera 
tions,  from  father  to  son, 
the  memory  of  departed 
grandeur  was  handed 
down,  in  the  hope  and  ex 
pectation  of  better  things. 
Long  they  waited,  but  in 
vain,  and  the  consuming 
pride  and  ambition  of 
successive  generations  of 
Grandmaisons,  habitants 
all,  found  hard  to  bear 
the  incongruity  of  their 
condition,  the  thoughtless 
witticisms  of  their  neigh- 


bors,  the  pain  of  hope  deferred,  and  the  con 
sciousness  of  destiny  unfulfilled. 

Pierre  Grandmaison  was  born  in  a  log  cabin, 
and  when  he  became  cure  of  the  parish  St. 
Sauveur,  the  presbytery,  his  residence,  was  a 
little  stone  house  of  two  rooms,  adjoining  the 
little  church.  But  he  was  a  young  man  and 
courageous,  and,  without  regard  to  past  failure 
or  present  disappointment,  even  in  the  day 
of  small  things  he  continued  to  cherish  the 
hope  of  one  time  dwelling  in  a  house  be 
coming  his  name  and  the  tradition  of  his  an 
cestors.  When  this  hope  should  be  fulfilled, 
then  would  harmony  be  restored  between 
name  and  fact,  between  tradition  and  destiny ; 
then  would  that  which  was  fitting  be  accom 
plished  ;  the  great  name  would  be  joined  to 
the  great  house ;  all  the  parish  would  approve ; 
all  the  Grandmaisons  of  the  Province,  and  they 
were  many,  would  point  with  pride  to  their  true 
and  only  representative,  and  even  the  departed 
ancestors  would  look  down  from  heaven  with 
satisfaction  upon  so  desirable  a  consummation. 


Thus  thought  Father  Grandmaison  in  his 
moments  of  worldly  pride  and  selfish  ambition. 
In  his  secret  heart  the  cure  felt  that  the 
thought  was  sin,  and  that  he,  who  had  de 
voted  himself  to  the  service  of  Christ  and  His 
Church,  had  no  right  to  cherish,  as  the  desire 
of  his  heart,  any  worldly  ambition ,  any  earthly 
hope.  Therefore  the  good  priest,  in  his  mo 
ments  of  faith  and  consecration,  fiercely 
repudiated  the  ambition  of  his  lower  self, 
violently  dismissed  the  earthly  ideal  from 
the  threshold  of  thought,  earnestly  fixed  his 
attention  upon  the  cross  of  Christ,  and  yet, 
even  in  the  hour  of  purest  devotion,  the  cure 
knew,  in  his  inmost  soul,  that  if  the  Master 
should  come  to  him  and  ask  in  wistful  tones — 
"Pierre  Grandmaison,  lovest  thou  Me?" — he 
would  be  obliged  to  confess  with  tears  that 
his  most  ardent  hope  concerned  not  the  com 
ing  of  the  kingdom  of  his  Lord,  but  the  erec 
tion  of  a  visible  monument  to  a  weak  and  fool 
ish  earthly  pride. 

But    Father   Grandmaison   was    a   man  of 


character,     and,     however 
much  he  might  desire  the 
unattainable,    he    did  not 
allow  any  vain  wish  to  in 
terfere   with  the  work  of 
life.      Because  of  the  rest 
less   ambition  which  pos 
sessed  his  soul,  he   threw 
himself  with  more  energy 
into  the   manifold    duties 
of  his  parish.     Never  was 
more  faithful  priest.    Nev 
er  did  servant  of  God  more 
truly  represent  the  Master 
he  professed  to  serve.     Be 
cause  he  knew  that  his  was 
at  best  a  half-hearted  serv 
ice,    for   this  very  reason 
he  determined  that,  in  so 
far    as  externals  are  con 
cerned,  there  should  be  no 
failure  in  fulfilling  the  last 
letter  of  the  law. 


•\ 


\ 


\ 


Therefore  he  went  in 
and  out  among  his  people 
as  one  who  was  their 
friend,  bearing  their  sor 
rows  and  their  sins,  weep 
ing  with  those  who  wept, 
rejoicing  with  those  to 
whom  God  had  given  joy, 
present  at  baptisms,  mar 
riages,  burials,  administer 
ing  all  the  offices  of  the 
Church  as  one  who  must 
give  account.  The  people 
whom  he  served  judged 
him  according  to  his  works, 
and  there  was  not  a  priest 
in  the  whole  diocese  more 
beloved,  nor  one  with  a 
greater  reputation  for  holi 
ness  of  life  and  singleness 
of  purpose. 

By  no  act  or  word  did  he 
betray  to  any  man,  save 


to  his  confessor,  the  secret  wish  of  his  heart. 
That  wish,  like  a  smoldering  fire,  glowed  ever 
in  his  breast,  inextinguishable,  but  never  blaz 
ing  forth  to  the  light  of  day ;  on  the  one  hand 
a  motive  and  source  of  holy  life  and  activity, 
on  the  other  a  spirit  of  inward  condemnation. 

2. 

When  Father  Grandmaison  first  came  to 
the  parish  of  St.  Sauveur  the  parish  was  poor 
and  there  was  little  prospect  of  improvement 
in  material  things.  But  the  cure  had  come 
prepared  to  wait.  He  waited,  and  the  years 
passed  away,  one  after  the  other,  very  swiftly. 
His  dark  hair  turned  to  silver-gray,  then  to 
silver-white.  Children  he  had  baptized  had 
children  and  grandchildren  of  their  own,  but 
the  parish  church  and  the  presbytery  re 
mained  unchanged.  So  also  the  river  and  the 
mountains. 

Then  came  a  change,  and  because  of  vari 
ous  circumstances,  the  parish  received  a  sud 
den  influx  of  population.  Prosperity  began, 


Soon  the  little  church  was  too  small  for  the 
congregations  and  it  was  necessary  to  build  an 
other.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  St.  Sauveur 
rejoiced  in  the  possession  of  a  fine  new  edifice 
of  stone,  where  a  thousand  worshipers  might 
together  kneel  in  prayer,  while  from  the  lofty 
steeple  pealed  forth  in  solemn  tones  the  largest 
bell  in  the  whole  diocese.  Without  doubt  the 
work  accomplished  was  creditable  to  the  cure, 
worthy  of  the  parish,  and  pleasing  to  God. 

At  last  came  the  hour  when  the  little  cure 
felt  that  surely  now  the  hope  of  his  life  might 
be  fulfilled,  and  without  sin.  Silent  he  had 
waited  these  many  years.  The  parish  at  last 
had  prospered.  The  people,  many  of  them, 
were  rich,  and  could  well  afford  to  contribute 
liberally  to  the  building  of  a  presbytery  the 
like  of  which  was  not  to  be  found  in  ten  par 
ishes.  At  last  the  ancestral  ambition  of  the 
Grandmaisons  would  be  fulfilled.  In  the  per 
son  of  the  once  insignificant  parish  priest  they 
would  come  to  their  own  again  and  once  more 
sit  upon  their  throne  of  pride.  From  this 


serene  elevation  how  he 
would  look  down  with 
scorn  upon  the  injurious 
scoffers  of  former  days, 
who  had  dared  to  make 
light  of  the  just  pretensions 
of  a  family  descended  from 
the  ancienne  noblesse  !  Ah, 
the  canaille,  how  he  de 
spised  them !  And  the 
little  old  man  stamped  his 
feet  as  he  thought  of  the 
miserable  offenders,  long 
since  gone  to  that  place 
where  rich  and  poor  meet 
together.  But  the  cure 
stamped  his  feet,  clenched 
his  hands,  and  uttered 
words  the  like  of  which  had 
never  passed  his  lips  be 
fore.  A  slumbering  demon 
was  awakened  in  the  bosom 
of  Pierre  Grandmaison. 


Three  hours  later  Father 
Grandmaison  knelt  in  the 
little  stall  at  the  Basilica, 
pouring  into  the  ear  of 
Father  Felix,  of  the  Semi 
nary,  the  tale  of  his  most 
grievous  sin. 

"  Father  Felix,"  he  said, 
"  is  there  forgiveness  for 
me?  Have  I  not  com 
mitted  a  mortal  sin  in  that 
I  have  cherished  all  my 
life  this  devil  that  has  con 
quered  me  at  last  ?  Tell 
me,  Father  Felix,  shall  I 
not  resign  my  flock  into 
the  care  of  a  more  faith 
ful  shepherd,  and  go  to 
some  holy  retreat,  where 
I  may  expiate  my  sin  by 
prayer  and  penance  until 
the  end  of  life?"  Father 
Grandmaison  wept  bit- 


terly  and  tears  of  sympathy  glistened  in  the 
eyes  of  Father  Felix. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  the  confessor,  "let 
me  ask  you  a  few  questions.  Have  you  ever 
deliberately  consented  to  the  desire  ?  Have 
you  ever,  except  in  thought,  preferred  for  a 
moment  this  wish  of  yours  to  the  welfare  of  our 
holy  Church  ?  Have  you  ever  caused  a  single 
penny  of  the  funds  of  the  parish  to  be  diverted 
from  lawful  ends  for  the  sake  of  securing  the 
fulfillment  of  your  desire  ?  Have  you  ever 
publicly  or  privately  spoken  of  this  ambition 
of  your  life  ?" 

Father  Grandmaison  was  obliged  to  say, 
somewhat  reluctantly,  that  he  had  never  done 
any  of  these  things. 

"  Then,"  said  Father  Felix,  "  I  declare  to 
you  that  your  thought  has  been  no  sin,  since 
it  has  not  partaken  in  the  least  degree  of  the 
nature  of  intention.  You  have  never  intended 
to  sacrifice  the  welfare  of  the  Church  to  your 
carnal  desire,  and,  therefore,  I  repeat,  you 
have  done  no  wrong.  As  for  the  nervous  out- 


break  of  which  you  tell  me,  my  dear  brother, 
I  prescribe,  as  penance,  a  month's  sojourn  at 
our  beautiful  retreat,  Chateau  Bellevue,  where, 
amid  the  pines,  you  shall  rest  and  pray  and 
breathe  the  pure  air  and  look  upon  God's 
green  hills,  and  may  God  give  you  peace  as  He 
this  hour  forgives  your  sin." 

3. 

Father  Grandmaison's  sojourn  at  Chateau 
Bellevue  was  prolonged.  When  he  went 
to  the  retreat  the  maples  were  red  with 
the  frosts  of  October.  While  the  leaves 
fell  and  the  autumn  winds  blew  and  the  snows 
of  winter  descended  upon  field  and  river  and 
mountain,  the  little  cure  lay  prostrate  and  un 
conscious,  between  life  and  death.  At  the 
close  of  winter  he  sat  at  the  window  and  saw 
the  snow  melt  from  the  mountain  side  and 
great  masses  of  ice  float  down  the  river  until 
the  stream  was  clear  and  the  first  ships  came 
up  with  the  early  birds.  Toward  the  end  of 
May  he  gathered  the  trillium  and  the  blood- 


root  in  the  woods  around 
the  chateau,  and  all  sum 
mer  long  he  rested  in  that 
quiet  and  beautiful  place, 
until  the  color  came  back 
to  his  cheeks  and  the 
brightness  to  his  eyes  and 
he  could  walk  without  the 
aid  of  a  cane,  almost  as 
well  as  before.  Then  a 
deputation  from  the  parish 
came  to  escort  him  back 
to  his  people  and  his 
church.  They  came  with 
carriages  and  bore  him 
away  in  triumph. 

It  is  not  necessary  to 
tell  of  the  multitudes  that 
met  the  beloved  cure  at 
the  Rue  du  Pont,  nor  how 
they  carried  him  to  his 
home  amid  universal  re 
joicing,  nor  how  surprised 


Mr 


\ 


\ 


and  glad  he  was  when 
they  showed  him  the  new 
house  they  had  built  for 
him  while  he  was  away,  nor 
how  they  presented  him 
the  keys  with  much  eclat, 
begging  him  to  accept 
them  as  a  slight  token  of 
their  regard  and  affection. 
It  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
the  people,  rich  and  poor, 
had  combined  to  create  a 
presbytery  such  as  did  not 
exist  elsewhere  in  the 
whole  diocese,  perhaps  not 
in  the  whole  Province. 

There  it  stood,  with  its 
solid  stone  walls,  its  spa 
cious  piazza,  its  magnifi 
cent  tin  roof,  its  tall  chim 
neys,  and  the  railed  terrace 
above  all,  whence  one 
could  command  a  view  of 


art 


river,  plain  and  mountain  unsurpassed  in  ; 
the  world.  And  the  interior,  how  splendid  it 
was,  every  room  with  new  rag  carpets  on  the 
floor  and  holy  pictures  on  the  walls !  Then 
there  was  a  box  stove  in  every  room,  to  secure 
comfort  throughout  the  long  winter.  Also 
the  kitchen  was  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind, 
large  enough,  it  seemed,  to  contain  half  the 
parish.  Altogether,  the  people  were  proud 
of  what  they  had  done,  and  delighted  to  be 
able  to  give  the  good  cure  such  a  surprise  on 
returning  from  his  long  absence. 

Father  Grandmaison  was  overcome.  As 
he  stood  on  the  piazza  with  bared  head,  his 
white  hair  shining  in  the  sunlight,  he  was 
unable  to  find  words  suitable  for  the  occasion. 
He  could  only  say : 

"  My  friends,  it  is  a  long  time  that  I  have 
desired  to  live  in  a  house  like  this.  I  had 
hoped,  but  I  had  also  ceased  to  hope.  But 
you  have  to-day  given  me  great  happiness,  and, 
my  friends,  I  thank  you.  You  are  too  good  to 
me.  I  have  not  deserved  it.  May  God  bless  you!5 


Having  attained  the  summit  of  his  ambi 
tion,  Father  Grandmaison  was  surprised  to 
find  himself  sad  at  heart.  Seated  upon  an 
eminence  far  above  the  majority  of  his  fel 
low-men,  he  longed  for  the  companionship 
of  the  poor  and  lowly,  and  his  heart  still 
vibrated  in  unison  with  the  heart-throbs  of 
the  common  people.  What  booted  after  all 
the  strain  of  noble  blood  of  the  race  of  Grand 
maison,  when  diluted  with  ninety-nine  parts 
of  Gagnon,  Hebert,  Trembly,  Boucher  and 
the  rest  ?  How  melodious  the  sound  of  these 
names !  How  the  rich  habitant  blood  coursed 
through  his  veins  as  he  thought  of  the  log 
cabins  of  his  ancestors,  their  homely  fare, 
their  songs  and  jests  around  the  evening 
fire,  the  warm  clasp  of  the  hand,  the  tear-drop 
of  the  eye ! 

And  this  grand  new  house,  with  its  massive 
walls,  its  shining  roof,  its  broad  spaces,  its 

range  furniture,  what  comfort  did  it  bring 


to  the  heart  ?  How  could 
things  like  these  fill  up  the 
emptiness  of  the  soul? 
When  he  said  to  himself, 
"This  is  happiness,"  a 
voice  within  him  seemed 
to  reply,  "Thou  fool!" 
When  he  tried  to  feast  on 
the  grandeur  about  him, 
it  seemed  to  him  like  the 
husks  of  the  parable,  fit 
only  for  swine.  Then,  like 
the  lost  prodigal,  he  said 
aloud,  "  I  will  arise  and 
go  to  my  father's  house,  to 
the  place  where  I  was  born, 
to  the  humble  people 
whom  I  have  loved  and 
among  whom  I  must  live 
and  die." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass 
that  Father  Grandmaison 
went  out  among  the  very 


**w»^ 


poor  of  the  parish,  and 
there  were  many,  and 
brought  to  his  great  house 
all  the  poor  orphans  who 
had  no  friends,  until  the 
place  was  filled  with  the 
voices  of  happy  children. 
Soon  there  was  not  a  room 
left  for  the  good  father 
himself.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  little  dwelling 
where  he  had  spent  the 
best  years  of  his  life. 

The  best  years,  did  I 
say?  The  best  were  yet 
to  come.  Back  in  the 
dear  little  place,  with  the 
benediction  of  God  resting 
upon  all  that  he  did,  he 
was  happier  than  ever 
before,  more  active,  more 
joyous,  while  his  bodily 
and  mental  powers  seemed 


rejuvenated  every  day.  People  who  had 
feared  that  the  cure  would  soon  die  began  to 
think  that  he  would  live  forever.  Only  the 
very  old  people  remembered  the  time  when 
Father  Grandmaison  first  came  to  St.  Sauveur. 
To  all  others  it  seemed  as  though  he  had 
always  been  with  them,  and  none  thought  of 
his  going  aways  for  he  was  to  them  like  the 
ever-flowing  St.  Lawrence  or  the  everlasting 
Laurentian  Mountains.  Thus  passed  his  days 
like  the  steady  flowing  of  a  strong,  peaceful 
river,  without  any  fear  of  the  end,  or  any 
thought  but  of  work  to  be  done  and  service 
to  be  rendered. 

One  summer  evening,  as  the  sun  was  sink 
ing  behind  the  mountains,  Father  Grand 
maison  sat  in  the  little  garden  reading  his 
favorite  chapter  from  the  Holy  Evangel.  But 
his  eyes  wandered  from  the  sacred  page,  across 
the  pleasant  valley  of  the  St.  Charles,  up  to 
where  the  twin  spires  of  Charlesbourg  shone 
blood-red  in  the  gleam  of  the  setting  sun. 
Beyond  were  the  dark-blue,  fir-clad  mountains, 


and  above  them  a  mass  of  silver-gray  clouds 
edged  with  ruddy  gold.  Suddenly,  through 
an  opening  in  the  clouds,  the  broad  beams  of 
the  sun  shot  forth,  painting  the  whole  sky  in 
crimson  and  gold,  and  to  the  beholder  it 
seemed  as  though  a  flaming  archangel  stood 
waiting  for  him  at  the  open  gate  of  the 
celestial  city. 

The  light  of  that  glory  shone  in  the  face  of 
the  old  cure  and  gilded  his  silver  hair.  Look 
ing  once  more  on  the  page  of  the  book,  he 
read  aloud  the  words  of  comfort,  for  years 
graven  on  his  heart:  "In  domo  mei  Patris 
mansiones  multae  sunt. "  Looking  up  again  at 
the  glorious  shining  gateway,  with  face  aglow 
and  eyes  that  saw  a  vision,  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
stretched  out  his  hands,  and  said,  in  a  strong 
and  joyous  voice,  "  My  God,  it  is  for  me !" 
Then  he  sank  back  into  the  chair,  and  before 
the  glory  had  faded  from  river  and  moun 
tain  and  sky,  the  soul  of  Father  Grandmaison 
had  entered  the  house  of  God. 


III. 

THE  PEACEMAKER. 


1       \ 


THE  PEACEMAKER. 


THE  PEACEMAKER. 
1. 

IT  was  all  because  of  the  plans  of  the  pious 
zeal  of  Francois  Xavier  Lachapelle,  the  new 
priest  of  the  newly  created  parish  of  Ste.  Brig- 
itte  de  Laval.  All  things  were  new  in  the 
mountain  parish,  even  the  name,  given  by  the 
good  fathers  of  the  Seminary,  with  the  advice 
and  consent  of  cure  and  people,  in  order  to  con 
ciliate  the  strangers  from  beyond  the  sea,  to 
make  them  feel  at  home  in  the  land  of  their 
adoption,  that  by-and-by  they  might  forget,  if 
possible,  the  hills  and  valleys,  the  streams  and 
lakes  of  Cork  and  Bantry  and  Killarney. 


On  the  part  of  the  Cana 
dians  the  naming  of  the 
parish  was  a  veritable  act 
of  charity  and  sacrifice,  for 
they  would  have  felt  more 
secure  under  the  benign 
protection  of  St.  Lazare, 
Ste.  Therese  or  Notre 
Dame.  But  it  was  right, 
as  the  cure  said,  to  make 
some  concession  to  the 
feelings  of  strangers  in  a 
strange  land,  and  for  the 
love  of  God  they  were 
willing  to  revere  saints 
hitherto  unfamiliar,  if  not 
unknown,  in  the  seigniory 
of  the  Cote  de  Beaupre. 

The  Canadians  flattered 
themselves  that  they  had 
done  a  meritorious  work, 
but  the  ardent  young  cure, 
having  tasted  the  blessed- 


ness  of  making  peace,  conceived  the  thought 
that  still  more  could  be  done,  to  the  end 
that  Canadians  and  Irish  might  dwell  together 
in  love  and  harmony,  one  in  spirit,  as  they 
were  already  one  in  faith  and  baptism. 

It  was  indeed  a  question  of  baptism  in  the 
mind  of  Father  Lachepelle,  and  his  cherished 
plan  came  to  sudden  maturity  on  the  eve  of 
Christmas,  in  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  forty-nine. 

The  storm  of  that  night  is  still  remembered 
by  the  oldest  inhabitant,  who  delights  to  tell 
of  uprooted  trees,  blockaded  roads  and  houses 
buried  deep  beneath  drifts  of  snow.  It  was  a 
tempestuous  night,  with  much  snow  and  wind. 
The  cure,  in  his  little  cabin,  was  not  sorry  to 
have  plenty  of  wood  for  the  fire  and  good 
buffalo  robes  for  his  bed.  With  satisfaction 
he  was  thinking  of  the  night's  repose,  when 
suddenly  there  came  a  loud  knocking  at  the 
door,  and  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  in  trouble 
and  alarm. 

"It  is  I,  Phileas  Lafontaine,"  said  the  voice, 


"  But  open  quick,  M'sieu'  le  Cure ;  there  is  no 
time  to  lose." 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  priest,  "Is 
it  Madame  or  the  little  one  who  has  need  of 
me?" 

"Madame  is  well,  M'sieu'  Lachepelle,  but 
O !  M'sieu'  le  Cure,  the  little  one,  perhaps 
she  will  not  live,  and  you  will  at  least  give 
her  the  sacrament,  in  case,  to  make  sure." 

The  young  priest,  ever  ready  to  do  his  duty, 
and  above  all  in  the  extremity  of  death,  set 
out  in  the  storm,  and,  after  a  long  struggle 
with  the  drifting  snow,  arrived  at  the  cabin 
of  Phileas  Lafontaine. 

"What  name?"  said  the  cure,  as  he  made 
ready  to  administer  the  sacred  rite. 

"  Ah,  M'sieu'  le  Cure,"  said  Phileas,  "  if  you 
would  only  choose  the  name  it  would  be 
an  honor  indeed.  The  mother  has  set  her 
heart  upon  it,  and  the  little  one  might  per 
haps  live.  Who  can  tell  ?  If  you  only  would, 
M'sieu1  le  Cure." 

"With    pleasure,"    said    the  young  priest, 


and,  quickly  taking  the 
holy  water,  he  said  in 
solemn  tones:  "Brigitte 
Lafontaine,  I  baptize  thee 
in  the  name  of  the  Father 
and  of  the  Son  and  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  Amen !" 

Phileas  Lafontaine  gave 
a  gasp,  but  not  a  word  of 
protest.  It  was  too  late. 
"Brigitte  is  a  very  pretty 
name,"  he  murmured,  and 
it  was  good  of  you  to  come, 
M'sieu'  le  Cure." 

It  was  past  midnight 
when  Father  Lachapelle 
found  himself  once  more  in 
his  little  home,  very  tired, 
and  beginning  to  suffer 
from  the  reaction  which 
inevitably  follows  a  special 
exaltation  of  the  soul. 
Stooping  to  remove  the 


„  \ 


\ 


heavy  snowshoes  from  his 
aching  feet,  he  thought, 
with  self  pity,  of  his  diffi 
cult  mission  in  the  moun 
tains,  and  with  envy  of 
the  sleek  cure  of  Beauport, 
with  the  rich  tithes  and 
comfortable  presbytery. 

When,  therefore,  an 
other  loud  and  hideous 
knocking  disturbed  his 
peace,  is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  young  cure's 
temper  was  by  no  means 
serene  ? 

"Who's  there?"  he 
called,  in  a  tone  of  irrita 
tion. 

"It's  Phelim,  Father," 
said  a  well-known  voice. 

"Phelim  what?"  said 
the  cure. 

"Why,  Phelim  O'Brian, 

.... ., .. ,  ^^J^l^JTIIIZlS 


Father ;  and  for  God's  sake  come  to  my  house 
and  baptize  my  little  boy  before  he  dies, 
Father." 

"What  now,  Phelim?"  said  the  priest,  as 
the  Irishman's  scared  face  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"Father  Lachapelle,  as  sure  as  you  live, 
Father,  I  woke  up  in  the  night,  with  a  start, 
and  the  death-watch  was  ticking  in  the  wall 
above  the  baby's  cradle,  and  it  never  was 
known  to  tick  like  that  except  when  some 
body  was  about  to  die.  It  was  so,  Father,  the 
night  before  the  battle  of  Clontarf ,  when  my 
ancestor — " 

"Never  mind  about  your  ancestors,"  said 
the  angry  priest ;  "  I  do  n't  believe  in  death- 
watches,  nor  banshees,  nor  any  such  foolish 
ness  and  I'll  not  go  any  fool's  errand  with 
you  this  night,  I  can  tell  you  that,  Phelim 
O'Brian." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  talk  like  that, 
Father,"  said  Phelim,  falling  on  his  knees  on 
the  cabin  floor.  "For  the  love  of  God,  come 


my  house,  Father.  The  child  will  die,  and 
his  soul  is  in  your  care ;  his  soul,  Father,  his 
his  immortal  soul.  Come  this  time,  Father, 
and  I  '11  be  a  better  man.  I  '11  not  drink ;  I  '11 
not  swear ;  I  '11  not  tell  another  lie  as  long  as 
I  live.  I'll  do  anything  you  say,  Father, 
I  '11—" 

"O,  will  you?"  said  the  young  priest,  re 
covering  his  composure.  "  Then  I  '11  go  with 
you  on  one  condition;  and  that  is  that  you 
allow  me  to  name  the  child,  to  give  him  any 
name  I  please." 

"  Surely,  Father,  that 's  easy,"  said  Phelim, 
already  repenting  his  hasty  words.  "Let's 
go,  Father,  or  it  will  be  too  late." 

In  the  wind  that  howled  through  the  pines, 
and  shrieked  in  the  balsam  tops,  the  ignorant 
layman  thought  he  heard  the  cry  of  the  ban 
shee,  and  even  the  enlightened  priest  could 
hardly  escape  the  conviction  that,  in  the  form 
of  a  loup-garou,  Satan  himself  was  making 
vain  outcry  against  the  holy  work  about  to 
be  accomplished,  which  should  open  the  gate 


of  heaven  to  an  immortal 
soul,  and  effect  a  blessed 
reconciliation  among  the 
members  of  the  Church  on 
earth. 

"What  name, Phelim?" 
said  the  priest,  as  he  pre 
pared  to  baptize  the 
healthiest  Irish  baby  he 
had  ever  seen. 

"Phelim  and  Patrick 
have  been  our  family 
names  since  the  world  be 
gan,  but  you  are  to  name 
the  child,  Father.  Any 
way,  his  ancestors  in 
heaven  will  know  him  by 
the  color  of  his  hair,  name 
or  no  name,  so  it 's  all 
right,  Father." 

"  Jean  Baptiste  O'Brian, 
I  baptize  thee  in  the 
name  of  the  Father  and 


!* 


of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  Amen!" 

Father  Lac hapelle's 
scheme  of  mediation  was 
well  meant,  but  it  was  not 
well  received  by  the  par 
ishioners  of  Ste.  Brigitte 
de  Laval.  The  young  priest 
was  an  idealist,  whose 
message  of  peace  the  com 
mon  people  were  unable 
to  receive.  Canadians  and 
Irish  united  to  protest 
against  his  absurd  and 
premature  plan  of  union. 

The  bells  of  Christmas 
had  not  ceased  to  peal, 
and  the  storm  was  still 
raging  throughout  the  val 
ley,  when  a  solemn  dep 
utation  on  snowshoes  ap 
peared  at  the  presbytery, 
to  request,  and,  if  neces- 


sary,  to  demand  of  the  young  cure  some  def 
inite  assurance  of  a  change  of  policy.  On  the 
part  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  were  Isidore 
Turcotte,  Pamphile  Garneau,  and  Theodule 
Plamondon.  Representing  the  Irish  settlers 
were  Patrick  Dawson,  Denis  Driscoll,  and 
Michael  Lafferty. 

"M'sieu'  le  Cure,"  said  Isidore  Turcotte, 
when  the  young  priest  desired  to  know  for 
what  reason  they  had  come,  "  we  have  come 
to  you  on  behalf  of  those  not  yet  born,  but 
whom  the  good  God  will  send  to  us  in  time  to 
come.  We  hope,  M'sieu1  le  Cure,  that  it  will 
not  be  necessary  for  them  to  bear  names 
strange  to  our  ears,  the  names  of  saints  un 
known  to  us  until  recently,  whom  we  have 
not  been  accustomed  to  venerate,  and  who, 
perhaps,  take  but  little  interest  in  us  and  our 
children.  Our  fathers  have  not  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  find  guardian  saints  for  families  large 
and  small,  without  borrowing  from  Ireland  or 
any  other  foreign  country.  M'sieu'  le  Cure, 
we  desire  to  follow  the  examples  of  our  fathers. 


We  are  willing  to  live  in  peace  with  these 
Irish,  but  we  do  not  wish  to  be  like  them  in 
any  way.  We  prefer  to  remain  Canadians, 
as  our  fathers  for  many  generations." 

"  Father  Lachapelle,"  said  Patrick  Dawson, 
resenting  the  insults  of  Isidore  Turcotte,  "I 
speak  on  behalf  of  the  holy  saints  of  Ireland, 
our  native  land.  Who  has  not  heard  of  Saint 
Bridget,  Saint  Denis,  Saint  Michael,  and  Saint 
Patrick  ?  They  are  known  all  over  the  world, 
even  in  this  God-forsaken  country  of  Canada. 
Their  names  are  good  enough  for  any  habitant 
that  ever  was  born,  but  they  needn't  take 
them  if  they  do  n't  want  them ;  only  we  will 
not  have  our  children  called  after  obscure 
Frenchmen  like  Damase,  Ignace,  Theophile, 
or  Zacharie.  Besides,  Father,  it's  ridiculous 
to  give  a  French  name  to  an  Irish  child.  Jean 
Baptiste  O'Brian  is  bad  enough,  but  Theophile 
Kelly,  Zotique  Driscoll,  Petronille  Laf- 
ferty — !  Lord  !  Father,  it  would  n't  sound 
right  at  all,  at  all.  Anyway,  Father  Lacha 
pelle,  we  '11  have  none  of  this  foolishness. 


Irish  we  were  born  and 
Irish  we  will  die,  and  the 
curse  o'  Crummle  on  any 
child  of  ours  that  dares  to 
say  otherwise," 

Much  more  was  said  by 
the  representatives  of  both 
parties,  and  it  was  con 
fidently  expected  that 
Father  Lachapelle  would 
bow  to  the  storm.  The 
young  priest,  however,  had 
the  spirit  of  a  martyr, 
coupled  with  a  profound 
contempt  for  the  preju 
dices  and  obstinacy  of  the 
common  people.  He  abso 
lutely  refused  to  make  the 
promises  required.  O  n 
the  contrary,  he  declared 
that  he  would  use  every 
means  in  his  power  to 
bring  about  Christian 


«i  *!»    ..^ 


peace  and  unity  between 
the  two  races,  even  if  it 
were  necessary  to  refuse 
the  sacraments  of  the 
Church  to  those  who  re 
sisted  the  power  of  God 
and  the  authority  of  His 
chosen  servant. 

The  case  was  taken  to 
the  bishop,  who  speedily 
removed  the  young  fanatic, 
sending  him  to  the  In 
dian  tribes  of  the  upper 
Saguenay,  while  Father 
John  Horan  became  the 
cure  of  the  mountain  par 
ish. 

Father  John  Horan  was 
born  in  Ireland  and  educa 
ted  in  France,  and  no 
man  could  tell  by  word 
or  deed  whether  he  was 
French  or  Irish.  Pos- 


J 


JL 


I 


sessed  of  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  spirit  of  com 
promise,  he  did  much  to  establish  good  rela 
tions  between  the  rival  factions. 

"  Be  on  good  terms  with  all  the  saints,"  said 
Father  Horan  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  ser 
mon  to  the  congregation.  "  Pray  to  them  all, 
for  you  do  n't  know  when  you  may  need  their 
influence.  But  in  giving  names  to  your  chil 
dren,  many  though  they  be,  it  is  not  possible 
to  remember  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar. 
Select  those  whose  names  you  love  and  in 
whom  you  have  the  greatest  confidence.  St. 
Patrick  doubtless  loves  the  Irish,  although  he 
was  born  in  Britain  and  educated  in  France, 
like  myself.  St.  John  the  Baptist,  although 
he  was  a  wandering  Jew,  has  a  special  affec 
tion  for  those  who  live  in  the  Canadian  wilder 
ness.  St.  Denis,  beloved  in  Ireland,  was  born 
in  France,  and  we  may  all  unite  in  devotion 
to  him.  Bridget,  sure,  was  Irish,  nothing  else. 
But  the  saints,  whether  French  or  Irish,  Ger 
man  or  Italian,  never  quarrel  among  them 
selves.  They  have  no  time  for  that.  T 


pray  incessantly  for  all  the  world,  especially  for 
those  committed  to  their  care.  My  friends,  let 
us  be  like  them. 

"As  for  Brigitte  Lafontaine  ' 
and  Jean  Baptiste  O'Brian," 
said  Father  Horan,  "  they  shall 
be  our  little  angels  of  peace  and 
good  will  in  the  parish  of  Ste. 
Brigitte  de  Laval." 


IV. 
THEOPHILE. 


THEOPHILE. 


THEOPHILE. 
1. 

IT  was  not  that  Theophile  Beaurepaire  was 
rich,  nor  that  he  was  tall  and  strong,  nor  that 
at  times  a  wicked  gleam  lit  up  his  black  eyes,  so 
that  the  young  men  called  him  a  "  deuce  of  a 
fellow,"  and  the  young  women  smiled  and 
blushed  at  the  mention  of  his  name.  It  was  for 
none  of  these  reasons  that  the  good  people  of 
L'Ange  Gardien,  the  ancients  and  the  sober 
middle-aged  people,  looked  askance  at  Theophile, 
crossed  themselves  and  whispered,  "  Infidel," 
"  Atheist,"  "  Sacrilegious  one,"  as  he  passed  by. 

It  was  because  the  good  people  of   L'Ange 


Gardien,  dwelling  in  peace, 
as  their  fathers  had  done 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  beneath  the  shadow 
of  mountains  which  they 
never  wished  to  climb,  be 
side  the  flow  of  a  mighty 
stream  on  whose  waters 
they  never  cared  to  sail, 
desired  to  continue  in  the 
ancient  ways,  and  bitterly 
resisted  the  efforts  of  one 
who  strove  to  awaken 
them  from  their  long  re 
pose. 

The  ancestral  customs, 
the  time-honored  usages, 
were  as  nothing  to  that 
young  man,  descendant  of 
seven  generations  of  peace 
ful  habitants,  but  heir  to 
the  restless  spirit  of  some 
remote  ancestor,  some  Bre- 


ton  pirate  or  some  Norman  viking.  For  he 
had  departed  from  the  trodden  paths,  removed 
the  old  landmarks,  despised  the  tradition  of  the 
fathers,  and,  to  those  who  loved  to  think  of 
former  days,  he  was  a  profane  person,  a 
breaker  of  images,  a  setter-up  of  strange  gods. 

Let  us  tell  some  of  the  changes  Theophile 
sought  to  bring  into  the  parish  of  L'Ange 
Gardien. 

The  ancient  haycart,  dear  to  the  memory 
of  young  and  old,  with  its  stout  wheels,  its 
strong  shafts,  its  rack  and  roller,  he  had  set 
aside  in  favor  of  a  four-wheeled  monster  that 
two  horses  could  hardly  draw. 

Finding  the  Canadian  horses,  finest  in  the 
world,  unequal  to  the  task,  he  replaced  them 
with  a  pair  of  Clydesdales,  with  feet  like  an 
elephant's  and  stomachs  insatiable. 

Discovering  that  the  barn  doors  were  too 
low  and  narrow  for  the  great  wagon  with  its 
enormous  load,  he  tore  down  the  venerable 
roof,  with  its  graceful  curving  eaves,  raising 
in  its  place  a  huge  and  hideous  structure  of 


the  Mansard  type.  French  it  might  be,  but 
Canadian — never ! 

But  the  guardian  angel  himself  must  have 
shed  tears  as  he  beheld  the  consolidation  of 
five  beautiful  farms,  each  two  arpents  wide 
and  two  miles  long,  extending  from  the  river 
to  the  forest  slope  of  the  northern  mountains. 
The  old  boundaries  were  removed  and  three 
new  farms  created,  unlovely  blocks  of  land, 
almost  as  broad  as  long,  while,  from  the  fences 
that  were  torn  up,  the  thrifty  Theophile  ob 
tained  a  vast  quantity  of  firewood,  more  than 
a  hundred  cords,  which  he  sold  in  Quebec  for 
money  enough  to  build  a  new  barn  on  each  of 
the  more  distant  farms.  These  farms,  too,  he 
managed  to  sell  at  a  price  sufficient  to  pay  the 
cost  of  all  three,  and  this  to  strangers  from  a 
distant  parish,  who,  though  they  might  be 
good  Catholics,  had  little  in  common  with  the 
long-established  families  of  L'Ange  Gardien. 

And  what  of  the  five  little  farm-houses, 
close  to  the  main  road,  where  five  prosperous 
habitant  families  for  many  years  had  lived? 


Alas!  These  good  fami 
lies  were  gone,  and  in 
their  place,  for  three 
months  of  the  year,  were 
rich  people  from  Quebec, 
aliens,  who  came  to  spend 
the  summer  in  the  country 
parish,  while  during  the 
long  winter  the  little 
homes  were  desolate,  for 
saken,  half  buried  in  drifts 
of  snow. 

Nor  was  this  all.  It  was 
said  that  Theophile  had 
friends  among  Protestants 
at  Quebec,  and  it  was 
whispered  that  his  new 
stone  house,  with  its  spa 
cious  piazza,  its  flower- 
garden,  and  its  gravel 
walks,  bordered  with  large 
white  pebbles,  was  being 
prepared  to  receive  the 


\ 


\ 


red-haired  daughter  of  a 
Scotch  farmer  of  Ste.  Foye. 
Ah,  what  treachery ! 
Was  it  not  an  unpardon 
able  affront  to  all  the  mar 
riageable  girls  of  the  par 
ish  ?  True,  they  had  never 
thought  of  being  married 
to  Theophile,  and  their 
parents  would  never  per 
mit  it,  but  the  offense  ex 
isted  just  the  same.  And 
think  of  the  little  Philo- 
mene  Duhamel,  for  whom 
Theophile  had,  until  re 
cently,  shown  a  decided 
preference !  Indeed,  he 
had  often  been  seen  at  her 
home,  and  every  Sunday, 
after  Mass,  would  walk  be 
side  her  as  far  as  her 
father's  door.  But  the  old 
man,  because  of  Theo- 


1 


phile's  evil  ways,  had  forbidden  her  ever  to 
speak  to  him  again.  Philomene  had  wept  and 
Theophile  had  looked  sad  for  many  days. 
But  now  there  was  that  heretic  at  Quebec! 
Theophile  was  cheerful  arid  Philomene  proud. 
They  did  not  meet,  while  the  stone  house  was 
finished  and  Theophile  went  often  to  Quebec. 

2. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  about  the  middle  of 
July,  as  Theophile  drove  up  the  road  toward 
Montmorency,  Beauport,  and  Quebec.  The 
sun  was  rising  above  the  Island  of  Orleans 
and  the  gleam  on  the  water  of  the  North 
Channel  was  like  the  sparkle  of  diamonds, 
while  the  dew  glistened  on  purpling  fields  of 
hay  and  the  scent  of  clover  blossoms  filled  the 
air.  It  was  good  to  live,  to  breathe  the  fresh 
morning  air,  and  to  be  driving  rapidly  toward 
the  shining  roofs  and  spires  of  the  fair  city  of 
Quebec. 

Yet  the  muttered  maledictions  of  the  neigh 
bors  followed  him  as  he  drove  by.  Surely. 


,  the  bones  of  the  fathers  must  have  turned 
in  their  graves  as  the  gayly-painted  buggy 
rattled  past  the  quiet  churchyard,  where  noth 
ing  more  frivolous  than  a  Norman  eart  had 
ever  been  seen  before.  But  the  freshness  of 
the  morning  was  in  the  heart  of  Theophile 
and  the  glow  of  sunrise  in  his  eyes — why,  then, 
should  he  concern  himself  with  the  harmless 
dust  of  former  generations?  So  he  drove  on 
and  quickly  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

Toward  evening  he  returned  with  less  speed 
but  more  noise,  dragging  behind  his  buggy  an 
infernal  machine  that  made  a  fearful  din, 
alarming  the  passers-by  and  causing  the  horses 
to  bolt  in  sheer  terror. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  Theophile,"  said  Isidore  Gag- 
iion,  "  what  will  you  do  with  that  ?  Is  it  for 
searing  the  crows  or  is  it  a  rattle  for  the  baby  ? 
But  pardon,  there  is  not  yet  need  for  that." 

Theophile  laughed,  and  good-naturedly  de- 
seribed  the  new  mowing-machine. 

"Take  a  good  look  at  it,  Isidore.  It  is  the 
t  of  its  kind  in  the  parish,  but  surely  not 


the  last.  We  shall  see 
changes  in  L'Ange  (Jar- 
dien.  I  tell  you,  it  will 
do  the  work  of  ten  men, 
and  I  have  a  rake,  also, 
which  will  save  much  time 
and  expense.  Truly,  in 
three  days  you  will  see 
me  cut  all  my  hay,  and  in 
three  more  it  will  he  in  my 
new  harn.  Get  one  of 
these  machines,  Isidore; 
you  will  pay  for  it  in  one 
week.  If  you  like  I  will 
lend  you  mine  for  trial. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Hut  Isidore;  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"It  may  he  as  you  say, 
but  what  would  the  neigh 
bors  think  ?  For  me,  I 
say  it  is  all  right.  The 
world  must  move,  no 


doubt,  but  it  is  a  bad 
thing  to  offend  the  neigh 
bors,  such  as  that  pig 
headed  Ignace  Corbeau  or 
that  old  miser  Bonhomme 
Duhamel.  Besides,  Theo- 
phile,  I  will  tell  you,  in 
confidence,  that  I  have  a 
mind  to  marry  the  little 
\/l  Philomene,  and  it  will  be 
necessary  to  please  the  old 
man,  for  a  time,  at  least." 
With  that,  Isidore  went 
away  to  tell  the  neighbors 
that  it  was  high  time  to 
put  a  stop  to  some  things, 
or  there  would  soon  be  a 
veritable  revolution  in  the 
peaceful  parish  of  L'Ange 
Gardien. 

There  was  much  indig 
nation  and  excitement  in 
the  parish,  but  nothing 


would  have  been  done  had  it  not  been  for  the 
arrival  of  the  hay-makers  on  the  very  next 
day.  They  came  with  scythes,  grindstones 
and  frying-pans,  from  the  lower  parishes,  from 
St.  Tite  des  Caps,  Les  Eboulements,  Baie  St. 
Paul  and  places  still  more  remote,  where  the 
harvest  was  several  weeks  later  than  at 
L'Ange  Gardien.  They  came  in  bands  of  ten 
and  twenty,  singing  as  they  trooped  along. 

"Ah,  good  morning,  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire," 
said  the  leader  of  the  first  contingent ;  "  you 
remember  me,  do  you  not?  Damase  Trembly 
from  Malbaie  there  below.  I  worked  for  you 
last  year,  did  I  not  ?  Glad  to  cut  your  hay 
this  year  also,  if  it  please  you." 

Damase  grinned  as  he  thought  of  thirty 
good  dollars  he  had  earned  in  less  than  two 
weeks,  hoping  once  more  to  make  as  good  a 
bargain  for  himself  and  his  associates. 

"Very  sorry,  Damase,"  said  Theophile,  "but 
I  have  a  machine  that  will  do  all  the  work  I 
need,  with  the  help  of  myself  and  the  regular 
hands.  But  you  will  find  plenty  of  work 


farther  on.  Bonhomme  Duhamel  has  a  large 
crop  this  year.  So  have  all  the  rest." 

But  Damase  was  not  content,  and  passed  on 
grumbling  about  "  damnable  inventions  "  that 
took  the  bread  out  of  the  poor  man's  mouth 
and  out  of  the  mouth  of  his  wife  and  children. 
Later  comers  were  even  less  pleased  and  went 
so  far  as  to  threaten  the  "cursed  heretic." 

But  the  Canadian  habitant,  though  suffi 
ciently  courageous,  is  just  and  peace-loving, 
preferring  methods  of  conciliation  to  the  fury 
and  violence  of  open  war.  Therefore  it  was 
not  a  mob  breathing  vengeance  that  came 
after  sunset  to  the  house  of  Theophile  Beaure- 
paire,  but  a  simple  deputation  of  three  per 
sons,  consisting  of  the  respected  cure,  M. 
Perrault,  the  influential  habitant,  Bon 
homme  Duhamel,  and  the  leader  of  the  hay 
makers.  Damase  Trembly. 

"My  son,"  said  the  cure,  "we  are  here  to 
ask  you,  on  behalf  of  your  friends  and  neigh 
bors,  to  refrain  from  using  the  new  machine 
which  you  have  brought  to  the  parish  L'Ange 
~^  — — — —  -•  —  •••••••  *•* 


Gardien.  Believe  me,  it 
is  not  so  much  the  ma 
chine  itself  that  I  fear  as 
the  spirit  of  change  that 
animates  you  and  bids  you 
depart  from  the  ancient 
ways.  It  is  with  profound 
sorrow  that  I  have  seen 
you  abandon,  little  by 
little,  the  hallowed  usages 
of  many  generations,  un 
til  you  are  ready,  it  would 
seem,  to  trample  upon 
everything  that  your 
fathers  have  held  dear, 
perhaps  even  the  blessed 
religion  itself,  the  Holy 
Church,  the  Sacred  Heart 
of  Christ.  Return,  my 
son,  to  the  beaten  path, 
trod  by  the  feet  of  many 
generations.  Unite  with 
us  and  let  us  make  this 


r- 


^       !*• 

T 


quiet  country  parish  a 
sacred  retreat,  far  from 
the  trouble  and  evil  of  the 
world,  protected  by  a  holy 
angel,  calm  under  the 
shadow  of  Mount  Ste. 
Anne,  pure  beside  the 
clear-flowing  St.  Lawrence 
River." 

"Father  Perrault,"  said 
the  young  man,  "  I  can  not 
share  your  fears,  and  your 
thought  of  a  happy  country 
parish  does  not  appeal  to 
me.  Satan  would  come 
even  into  a  Garden  of 
Eden.  But,  truly,  I  am 
not  an  atheist,  nor  even  a 
Protestant.  I  believe  and 
hope  in  God,  and  that  is 
why  I  do  not  fear  the  new 
gifts  that  come  from  Him. 
Our  fathers,  surely,  must 


I 


have  desired  a  change,  or  they  would  never 
have  come  to  L'Ange  Gardien." 

"You  talk  nonsense,  Theophile,"  broke  in 
Bonhomme  Duhamel.  "  Our  ancestors,  it  is 
true,  came  to  L'Ange  Gardien,  but  they 
brought  with  them  customs  old  as  the  hills, 
and  it  is  for  us  to  preserve  them  while  we  live. 
Ah,  how  I  remember  the  good  old  times ! 
The  thought  of  them  brings  tears  to  the  eyes. 
Then  were  cherished  the  ancient  solid  virtues : 
reverence  for  the  Church,  respect  for  the 
priest,  obedience  to  the  seigneur,  love  for  the 
neighbor,  no  discontent,  no  unrest,  all  calm, 
peaceful,  like  the  river  at  high  tide.  Theo 
phile,  we  want  no  changes  in  L'Ange  Gar 
dien.  As  our  fathers  have  done,  so  will  we 
do  and  our  children  forever.  Besides,  my 
friend,  with  these  new  inventions  you  are 
bringing  ruin  upon  yourself  and  all  these  poor 
laborers  who  have  come  so  far  expecting 
work." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Damase  Trembly,  the 
third  member  of  the  deputation.  "Here  I 


have  come  all  the  way  from  Malbaie,  seventy 
miles  over  the  hills.  Ah,  what  hills!  And 
there  are  my  wife  and  the  children,  six  of 
them,  all  little,  not  able  to  work.  But  they  can 
eat.  Mon  Dieu,  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire,  but  you 
should  see  them  eat — potatoes,  bread,  soup, 
fish,  it  is  astonishing !  Also  they  must  have 
clothes,  not  in  summer,  perhaps,  but  when  the 
cold  weather  comes  it  is  absolutely  necessary. 
They  will  be  looking  for  me  when  the  haying 
is  over  and  when  they  see  me  coming  along 
the  road  they  will  run  to  meet  me.  But 
what  shall  I  say  to  them  when  I  come  with 
empty  hands — no  money,  no  warm  clothes, 
nothing  to  eat  ?  Ah  !  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire, 
you  will  think  of  us.  You  will  not  use  that 
machine.  You  will  give  work  to  ten,  fifteen 
good  habitants,  and  they  will  bless  you 
while  they  live.  They  will  also  pray  for  you, 
they  and  their  families.  Think  of  it,  M'sieu' 
Beaurepaire,  the  prayers  of  so  many  poor  peo 
ple,  they  will  be  good  for  you." 

"  It  is  true,  Damase,"  said  Theophile,  rising 


as  he  spoke,  "but  the 
workmen  who  made  the 
mowing-machine  and  the 
rake,  shall  I  not  have  the 
benefit  of  their  prayers  ? 
Besides,  if  I  save  my 
money  I  will  spend  it  in 
building  a  new  barn  or 
a  sawmill,  and  there  will 
be  other  people  who  will 
bless  me  for  that.  Also 
yourself,  Damase,  if  you 
will  leave  your  little  stony 
farm  at  Malbaie  and  come 
to  L'Ange  Gardien,  you 
shall  work  for  me  all  the 
year.  I  will  give  you  a 
house  and  good  wages,  and 
you  shall  see  that  farming 
by  the  new  method  is 
good  for  everybody. 

"It  is  not  only  this,  my 
good    friends,    but    some- 


~ ,  V 


" 


ng  within  me  that  com 
pels  me  to  do  these  things. 
I  go  to  Quebec  and  I  find 
that  the  world  moves.  I 
come  back  to  L'Ange  Gar- 
dien  and  am  no  longer  the 
same  man.  No  longer  can 
I  live  in  the  same  way.  I 
must  have  new  barns.  I 
must  cut  my  hay  with  my 
new  mower  and  rake  it 
with  my  new  rake.  My 
friends,  it  is  the  will  of 
God.  To-morrow  you 
shall  see  how  the  plan 
works,  and  next  summer 
all  the  farmers  in  L'Ange 
Gardien  will  have  ma 
chines  like  mine." 

"Let  us  go,  M.  Du- 
hamel,"  said  the  cure,  "it 
is  no  use  to  talk  any 
more.  Let  us  go,  Damase. 


Good-bye,  Theophile,  I  am  sorry  that  you 
can  not  see  as  we  do.  Perhaps  some  day  you 
may  change  your  mind." 

So  the  cure  and  the  laborer  went  away,  but 
Bonhomme  Duhamel  remained  behind.  He 
had  something  more  to  say,  some  faint  hope 
that  all  would  yet  be  well. 

"Theophile,"  he  said,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  I  have  always  thought  well  of  you.  I 
was  a  friend  to  your  father  and  I  have  always 
thought  of  you  as  a  son.  Always  have  I  ex 
pected  you  to  return  to  the  ways  of  your 
fathers.  If  there  be  anything  I  can  do  to  in 
duce  you  to  do  this,  I  shall  be  very  glad. 
Theophile,  my  son,  I  have  had  ambitions  for 
you.  My  daughter,  too,  I  am  sure  that  she 
does  not  dislike  you.  Who  can  tell  but  that 
we  might  arrange?  You  have  spoken  of  it 
before,  but  I  would  not  listen.  Now,  for  the 
good  of  the  parish,  for  my  own  sake,  I  ask  you 
to  consider.  We  shall  yet  be  happy  and  I 
shall  live  in  peace  in  my  old  age." 

"M.    Duhamel,"    said    Theophile,    looking 


.X 


> 


very  serious,  "  it  is  true  that  I  have  wished  to 
marry  Philomene,  and  it  is  still  the  desire  of 
my  heart.  But  would  she  be  glad  to  marry 
one  who  had  given  up  the  ambition  of  youth 
and  the  set  purpose  of  manhood  for  the  sake 
of  a  life  of  ease  and  stupid  content  ?  M.  Du 
hamel,  I  will  not  believe  it.  If  Philomene 
would  do  this  she  is  not  what  I  -think  and  I 
will  not  marry  her.  But  if  she  thinks  with 
me  I  will  carry  out  my  plan  of  life  and  marry 
Philomene  as  well,  in  spite  of  everybody." 

"  Theophile,"  said  the  old  man,  "  you  have 
great  courage,  but  I  think  you  are  making  a 
sad  mistake.  If  you  find  it  to  be  so,  remem 
ber  what  I  have  said." 


From  this  moment  ill  luck  seemed  to  fall 
upon  Theophile  and  everything  that  he  did. 
The  neighbors  agreed  that  he  had  exhausted 
the  patience  of  the  good  God  and  provoked 
the  vengeance  of  heaven.  Perhaps  it  was  not 
so,  but  it  is  certain  that  misfortune  followed 


him,  and  that,  like  Pharaoh 
of  Egypt,  he  did  not  re 
pent,  but  only  hardened 
his  heart. 

On  the  morning  after 
the  visit  of  the  deputation, 
Theophile  began  to  mow 
his  hay  with  the  new  ma 
chine.  Scarcely  had  he 
driven  twice  around  the 
field  when  the  teeth  were 
broken  against  a  jagged 
rock.  It  was  necessary  to 
send  to  Quebec  for  an 
other  set,  so  that  nothing 
could  be  done  that  day. 

On  the  following  morn 
ing  the  machine  was 
started  again,  but  presently 
it  ceased  to  move,  and 
Theophile  was  obliged  to 
spend  most  of  the  day, 
with  the  aid  of  the  parish 


A 


M 


\\ 


\ 


\ 


, 


blacksmith,  in  replacing 
certain  little  bolts  and 
screws  that  were  for  some 
reason  missing.  About 
sunset  all  was  in  order, 
and  Theophile  had  the 
pleasure  of  cutting  an  ar- 
pent  or  two  before  dark, 
promising  himself  many 
hours  of  work  on  the  fol 
lowing  day. 

That  night,  in  the  midst 
of  a  terrific  thunder-storm, 
a  bolt  from  heaven  fell 
upon  the  new  barn,  which  in 
a  moment,  with  all  its  con 
tents,  including  the  mower 
and  the  horse-rake,  was  a 
mass  of  flames.  The  neigh 
bors  came  from  far  and  near 
to  see  the  bonfire  and  to  talk 
with  complacency  of  the 
vengeance  of  the  good  God. 


But  Theophile  was  not  yet  subdued,  for  he 
sent  immediately  to  Quebec  for  new  machines, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  found  that  there 
were  no  more  for  sale  that  he  determined  to 
give  up  the  struggle  for  that  year.  With  a 
smile  on  his  face  he  approached  Damase 
Trembly. 

"Damase,"  he  said,  "I  am  beaten  for  this 
time.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  cut  my  hay 
as  you  did  last  year?" 

"  With  pleasure,  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire,  and  I 
am  sorry,  also,  that  you  have  had  such  bad 
luck." 

So  Damase,  with  ten  assistants,  went  to 
work  at  once,  cutting  with  scythes,  raking 
with  long  hand  rakes,  and  binding  into  bundles 
in  the  time-honored  way.  Soon  Theophile's 
hay  was  as  far  advanced  as  any  of  his  neigh 
bors',  and,  if  all  had  gone  well,  his  losses 
would  have  been  made  good  by  the  profits  of 
that  one  summer.  The  neighbors,  too,  had 
the  finest  hay  that  had  ever  been  seen  in 
L'Ange  Gardien,  so  that  they  had  it  in  their 


heart  to  forgive  Theophile,  and  to  rejoice  at 
the  prodigal's  return. 

But  now  occurred  a  calamity  involving 
the  whole  parish,  a  disaster  such  as  had  not 
been  known  within  the  memory  of  man. 
Upon  the  fragrant  heaps  of  hay,  dry  and 
ready  for  binding,  there  fell  a  drenching  rain, 
rendering  it  necessary  to  spread  out  over  the 
fields  all  that  had  been  so  laboriously  gath 
ered,  that  it  might  dry  again  and  again  be 
made  ready  for  bundling.  No  sooner  was 
this  done  than  all  the  work  was  spoiled  by 
another  day  of  cold  and  dismal  rain.  It  is 
hard  to  believe,  but  nevertheless  true,  that,  in 
spite  of  the  prayers  of  Father  Perrault,  the 
same  evil  succession  continued  for  more  than 
six  weeks,  until  summer  was  gone  and  the 
good  hay  was  mildewed  and  rotten  on  the 
ground. 

The  disappointed  haymakers  returned  to 
the  poverty  of  their  neglected  farms,  while  the 
discouraged  habitants  of  L'Ange  Gardien  re 
mained  to  struggle  through  the  long  winter. 


striving,  by  means  of  mi 
nute  economies,  to  avoid 
touching  the  little  hoards 
laid  up  for  a  rainy  day. 

Theophile  suffered  with 
the  rest,  but  he  was  not 
slow  to  point  out  that 
several  farmers  of  Beau- 
port,  by  use  of  the  new 
machines,  had  saved  nearly 
all  their  hay  before  the  rains 
began.  This  was  a  fact 
that  the  neighbors  could 
not  deny,  but  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  think  of  it,  and 
Theophile  was  unkind  to 
remind  them  of  it  at  such 
a  time.  To  have  lost  per 
haps  five  hundred  dollars 
was  bad  enough,  but  to  be 
told  that  an  expenditure 
of  fifty  dollars  might  have 
saved  it  all  was  even 


harder  to  bear.  So  their 
dislike  of  Theophile 
ripened  into  hatred,  and 
no  longer  did  they  mutter 
imprecations  as  he  passed 
by,  but  turned  from  him 
in  silence  and  bitterness  of 
heart. 

Only  Damase  Trembly 
remained  a  friend  to  Theo 
phile,  for  he  had  left  his 
farm  at  Malbaie  and  had 
come  with  his  family  to 
live  in  one  of  Theophile's 
little  houses,  so  that  under 
one  roof,  at  least,  in 
L'  Ange  Gardien,  were  con 
tented  parents  and  happy 
children. 

Often  during  the  long 
winter  did  Theophile  sit 
by  the  fire  in  his  great 
kitchen,  thinking  of  his 


failures  in  the  past  and  dreaming  of  the  suc 
cess  which  would  surely  be  his  in  the  coming 
summer.  Always  he  thought  of  the  little 
Philomene.  At  one  time  her  rogueish  face 
smiled  at  him  from  the  rising  flames ;  at  an 
other  her  graceful  form, shadowy  yet  irresistible, 
was  at  his  side,  only  to  melt  away  into 
thin  air  as  he  reached  out  to  touch  her  hand. 
It  was  a  consolation  to  think  that  a  real,  bright- 
eyed  Philomene  was  not  so  far  away,  and  that, 
perhaps,  before  another  winter,  she  would  be 
with  him,  his  dear  companion  and  friend  for 
all  time  to  come. 

But  never  did  Theophile  visit  the  home  of 
Philomene,  and  not  once  did  she  give  him  the 
slightest  encouragement.  Even  when  they 
met  on  the  public  road  she  would  have  passed 
without  a  sign  of  recognition,  but  that  Theo 
phile  always  said,  "  Good  day,  Philomene," 
in  a  loud  and  cheerful  voice,  so  that  Philo 
mene  could  not  avoid  returning  the  greet 
ing,  as  politely  as  possible,  with  the  feel 
ing  that  a  young  man  of  such  agreeable 


manners  could  not  be  so  very  wicked  after 
all. 

On  a  certain  bright  winter's  day  it  seemed 
impossible  to  pass  by  in  this  unfriendly  way. 
The  sky  was  blue  and  deep  blue  were  the 
shadows  of  the  maples  on  the  white  snow, 
while  from  the  heart  of  every  snow-crystal 
there  shone  a  beam  of  sunlight  and  reflected 
love.  The  beaten  road  creaked  under  foot, 
and  the  frosty  air  caused  the  blood  to  tingle, 
the  cheeks  to  glow,  and  the  eyes  to  shine  with 
the  joy  of  living. 

"What  a  fine  day,  Philomene!"  said  the 
young  man,  as  they  met  at  the  corner  of  the 
road.  "It  is  good  to  live,  is  it  not?" 

"Truly  it  is,  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire,"  said 
Philomene,  pausing  a  moment  as  she  spoke. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  Philomene !  how  beautiful  you 
are!  And  those  furs!  It  is  not  in  Quebec 
that  one  sees  the  like." 

"  You  flatter  me,  M'sieu',"  said  Philomene, 
a  gleam  of  mischief  in  her  eyes,  "is  it  possible 
that  you  do  not  always  think  of  mowing- 


machines,  as  I  have  been 
told?" 

"  Bah  !  the  mowing  ma 
chine, — it  is  for  you,  Philo 
mene,  also  the  rake  and 
the  new  barn,  the  house 
too,  if  you  will  have  it. 
I  give  them  all  to  you, 
Philomene." 

"  O !  you  are  too  gener 
ous,  M'sieu',  I  could  not 
think  of  taking  away  the 
idols  which  you  love  so 
much." 

"Philomene,  it  is  you 
that — I  love,  and  these 
things,  they  are  all  for 
you." 

"How  can  you  say 
that  ? "  said  Philomene, 
with  an  impatient  stamp 
of  a  little  moccasined  foot. 
"  You  love  yourself  only, 


•X,' 


MM 


\-:\ 
£r: 


\ 


and  you  will  give  up  noth 
ing.  Ah !  I  am  sorry  for 
the  young  lady  at  Quebec. 
I  think  I  shall  tell  her 
what  you  are  like." 

"Philomene,"  said  the 
incorrigible  one,  "  there  is 
no  young  lady  at  Quebec ; 
she  is  in  L'Ange  Gardien. 
And  tell  me,  Philomene, 
when  you  will  marry  me. 
Shall  it  be  next  June,  or 
perhaps  in  October?" 

"I  will  never  marry 
you,"  said  the  angry  little 
Philomene.  With  that 
she  walked  away  with 
head  erect,  not  once  look 
ing  back,  and  when  she  re 
turned  home  she  wept  all 
the  rest  of  the  day  and  said 
she  would  enter  the  Ursu- 
line  Convent  at  Quebec. 


3 

ft 


"Wf 

I 


In  a  few  days,  however,  Philomene  was  as 
bright  and  smiling  as  ever.  Isidore  Gagnon 
came  often  to  the  house,  and  it  was  reported 
that  he  would  marry  the  daughter  of  Bon- 
homme  Duhamel  in  the  early  autumn. 

This  was  the  last  and  greatest  of  Theo- 
phile's  misfortunes  and  he  came  very  near  to 
losing  heart.  But  every  day  he  went  about 
his  daily  work,  and  every  evening  he  sat  alone 
by  the  fire,  smoking  his  pipe  and  thinking  of 
what  might  have  been,  though  not  without  a 
hope  of  what  might  yet  be,  when  the  day  of 
adversity  should  pass  away. 

Thus  the  winter  passed,  and  spring  blos 
somed  into  summer,  until  the  harvest  season 
came  again  and  once  more  the  purpling  fields 
awaited  the  coming  of  the  haymakers.  But 
Theophile  did  not  wait,  and  on  a  fine  morn 
ing  in  July  the  rattle  of  his  mowing-machine 
filled  the  air.  All  the  birds  and  beasts  of  the 
farm  ceased  their  morning  songs,  pausing  to 
listen  to  the  unfamiliar  discord.  Then  the 
cheerful  orchestra  began  again,  louder  than 


ever,  as  if  to  welcome  the  new  member  into 
the  happy,  noisy  country  family, 

All  day  Theophile  drove  up  and  down  the 
broad  field,  until  the  tasseled  hay  no  longer 
waved  in  the  breeze,  but  lay  prostrate  in 
fragrant  rows,  soon  to  dry  in  the  sun,  then  to 
be  raked  into  heaps,  piled  upon  the  great 
wagons  and  stored  away  in  the  spacious  barns. 
In  the  course  of  ten  days  the  entire  crop  of 
nearly  two  hundred  tons,  or,  in  the  language 
of  the  habitant,  about  twenty-five  thousand 
bundles,  was  saved  in  fine  condition.  At  the 
high  prices  then  current  it  was  a  fortune  for 
Theophile.  The  success  for  which  he  had 
worked  and  waited  was  his  at  last. 

4. 

One  evening  after  sunset,  Theophile  sat  on 
his  doorstep  watching  the  play  of  lightning  on 
the  gathering  clouds.  The  coming  storm  he 
had  no  reason  to  fear.  It  might,  perhaps,  do 
a  little  damage  to  his  neighbors'  hay,  but 
that  was  no  fault  of  his.  By-and-by  they 


would  come  to  his  way  of 
thinking  and  in  the  end 
would  lose  nothing.  Mean 
while  it  was  a  satisfaction 
to  see  them  suffer  a  little 
for  their  stupidity. 

As  for  himself,  Theo- 
phile  rejoiced  to  think  of 
his  well  -filled  barns. 
Twenty-five  thousand 
bundles!  It  was  magnifi 
cent  !  Then  there  was  the 
farm  of  nearly  two  hun 
dred  arpents,  the  horses 
and  cattle,  the  money  in 
the  bank,  the  new  stone 
house.  "Truly,"  he 
thought,  "I  am  a  very 
happy  man,  since  I  possess 
all  this  wealth.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

At  this  moment  a  flash, 
as  of  lightning,  illumina- 


ted  the  dark  recesses  of 
Theophile's  soul. 

He  perceived  himself  as 
he  was,  the  most  miserable 
of  men,  pitied  by  the  cure, 
hated  by  the  neighbors, 
forsaken  by  the  girl  he 
loved,  solitary  and  desti 
tute  in  the  cursed  pride 
and  hardness  of  his  heart. 

"O,  Mon  Dieu,  I  am 
poor,  very  poor.  There  is 
not  a  soul  in  the  world  who 
is  my  friend.  And  all  my 
success,  of  what  good  is 
it?  And  all  this  wealth, 
to  whom  shall  I  give  it? 
Philomene,  Philomene, 
have  I  not  said  it  is  all  for 
you?" 

Was  it  that  the  good 
God  heard  the  cry  of  re 
pentance  that  rose  from 


lijii 


_^. 


the  heart  of  Theophile,  or  was  it  by  accident 
that  the  answer  came  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  But 
it  is  certain  that  gentle  hands  pressed  the 
latch  of  the  garden  gate,  and  soft  footsteps  ad 
vanced  along  the  gravel  walk,  until  Theophile 
knew  that  his  good  angel  stood  by  his  side  in 
the  hour  of  darkness.  In  a  low  voice  he  said : 

"Is  it  you,  Philomene?     Is  it  really  you?" 

"Yes,  M'sieu'  Beaurepaire,  it  is  I,  and  I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 

"Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  Philomene. 
Say  that  you  will  marry  me  in  October,  if  it 
please  God." 

"But  no,  Theophile,  it  is  about  Isidore 
that  I  wish  to  speak.  He  is  a  wicked  man, 
and  it  was  he  who  spoiled  your  machine  last 
summer.  It  was  he,  also,  who  set  fire  to  your 
barn,  and  not  the  lightning  as  we  supposed." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Theophile,  quietly. 

"You  knew  it  and  said  nothing?" 

"  To  what  end,  Philomene.  Besides,  Isidore 
was  once  my  friend." 

"  Your  friend,  Theophile !    He  is  your  worst 


enemy,  and  mine  too.  He  is  very  angry  with 
me,  also,  for  a  certain  reason.  But  that  is  not 
all.  He  will  come  again  to-night,  as  soon  as 
the  storm  begins.  I  am  sure  of  it.  You  will 
watch,  will  you  not,  Theophile?" 

"Yes  dear,"  said  Theophile,  as  he  kissed 
her,  "  and  you  are  a  brave  girl  to  come  so  far 
on  such  a  night  as  this." 

"O  no,  Theophile,  it  was  nothing.  And 
now  I  must  go.  Do  not  come  with  me.  My 
father  is  back  there  by  the  gate.  Good-bye, 
Theophile." 

"Good-bye,  dearest,"  said  Theophile,  as  he 
kissed  her,  without  protest,  for  the  second 
time.  "And  it  will  be  in  October  after  all, 
will  it  not?" 

About  midnight  the  storm  broke,  and 
from  the  black  clouds  overhanging  L'Ange 
Gardien  there  fell  great  bolts  of  fire,  in 
stantly  followed  by  crashing  thunder  and 
heavy  drops  of  rain.  People  rose  from  their 
beds  in  fear  and  crossed  themselves  repeatedly 
and  mutterd  infinite  prayers,  scarcely  hop- 


ing  to  see  the  morning 
light. 

"It  is  because  of  Theo- 
phile  Beaurepaire,"  said 
many  a  pious  habitant. 
"  His  barns  will  be  burned 
again,  without  doubt.  It 
is  the  good  will  of  God, 
and  we  shall  have  no  more 
mowing-machines  in 
L'Ange  Gardien." 

So  also  thought  Isidore 
Gagnon,  as  he  knelt  on 
the  floor  of  Theophile's 
barn,  trying  to  kindle 
some  loose  hay  with  the 
aid  of  a  box  of  matches 
and  a  piece  of  cotton  wool. 
Already  two  matches  had 
spluttered  out,  but  the 
third  burned  well  and  Isi 
dore  applied  it  to  the  little 
pile.  The  cotton  was 


/ 


% 


\ 


'•stsLT 


\ 


y 


damp  and  would  not 
ignite. 

"  Sacre !"  said  Isidore, 
"  I  must  use  the  turpen 
tine  after  all." 

Turning  to  reach  for  it 
he  saw  the  tall  form  of 
Theophile  standing  near 
the  door,  lantern  in  hand. 

"  Good  evening,  Isidore," 
said  the  young  man  in  a 
quiet  voice. 

Isidore  did  not  reply; 
there  was  nothing  to  say. 

"Well,  Isidore,  do  you 
wish  to  be  sent  to  prison, 
or  shall  I  let  you  go 
home?" 

"You  can  not  send  me 
to  prison,  Theophile,  for 
you  have  no  evidence. 
Besides,  what  have  I  done  ? 
Nothing." 


"Nothing,  Isidore?  Not  to-night,  perhaps, 
but  what  of  last  year  ?  Damase  Trembly  re 
members  something,  also  M.  Duhamel  and 
even  Pbilomene.  The  evidence  is  sufficient,  I 
think." 

At  the  mention  of  Philomene's  name  Isidore 
grew  pale. 

"It  is  all  over,  then,"  he  said.  "It  was 
for  her  sake  that  I  did  it.  Do  what  you  like 
with  me,  Theophile.  Yet  I  was  once  your 
friend." 

"  That  is  true,  Isidore,  and  I  can  not  forget 
it.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  friends  again,  if  God 
will.  But  you  will  not  try  to  burn  my  barn 
again,  Isidore?" 

"  Mon  Dieu,  no !"  said  Isidore,  as  he  turned 
away.  "I  have  not  deserved  your  considera 
tion,  Theophile." 

The  next  morning  at  sunrise  Bonhomme 
Duhamel  came  to  see  Theophile  Beaurepaire. 

" Theophile,"  he  said,  "it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  cut  my  hay  this  year.  I  am  not 
so  young  as  formerly,  and  I  can  get  no 


laborers.  Your  work  is  all  finished.  Can 
you  not  come  to  help  me?" 

"With  great  pleasure,  M'sieu'  Duhamel," 
said  Theophile,  "  and  shall  I  bring  the  mow 
ing-machine?" 

"As  you  wish,  Theophile.  I  have  been  to 
blame.  You  must  forgive  me." 

"I  will  come,  M'sieu'  Duhamel,  and  the 
horse-rake  I  will  bring  also.  The  small  hay- 
cart  will  be  better,  since  the  barn  doors  are 
small.  Will  you  not  in  time  enlarge  them 
and  make  use  of  the  large  wagons?" 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  say,  Theophile. 
You  shall  have  your  own  way  in  everything." 

"And  Philomene?"  pursued  the  inexorable 
Theophile. — "Philomene  also,  my  son,"  said 
the  old  man,  embracing  Theophile. — "Philo 
mene  shall  drive  the  horse-rake,  my  father.  It 
will  be  a  fine  arrangement,  and  there  are  yet 
many  days  of  good  weather.  The  hay  will  all 
be  saved,  without  a  doubt.  And  after  that — " 

"  After  that  we  will  celebrate,"  said  Bon- 
homme  Duhamel. 


V. 
THE  EXILE. 


§ 


MADELEINE. 


THE  EXILE. 
1. 

"  No,  BROTHER  Louis,  it  will  not  be  possible  to 
prolong  my  visit.  Gladly  would  I  stay  with  you 
all  summer,  but  there  are  matters  of  business 
that  call  me  back.  Who  knows  ?  Another  ten 
years  will  soon  pass,  and  then,  perhaps,  I  shall 
come  again.  But  to-morrow  will  be  the  last 
day  for  the  present,  at  least.  And  it  will 
be  a  long  day.  What  shall  we  do  to  pass  the 
time?" 

"Let  us  try  the  river.  Since  yesterday  the 
water  has  fallen  and  there  will  be  good  fishing. 
We  shall  take  some  fine  trout,  'Poleon." 


'"" 


"  Good,  Louis,  we  '11  do 
it.  It  will  be  something 
to  remember  for  many  a 
day.  Wake  me  in  good 
time,  about  four  o'clock, 
I  should  say.  Good  night, 
old  man." 

At  the  point  of  dawn, 
Napoleon  and  Louis  left 
the  house  and  started 
down  the  hill  toward  the 
river.  Over  the  mountain 
the  last  pale  star  flickered 
in  the  growing  light.  The 
grass  was  wet  with  dew. 
The  white  mist  of  the  val 
ley  rolled  upward,  carry 
ing  to  the  god  of  the  morn 
ing  the  odor  of  white  clo 
ver  and  the  incense  of 
spruce  and  balsam. 

"There,  Toleon,"  said 
the  gay  Louis,  "  what  fine 


fresh  air,  how  sweet  and  clear  and  cool ! 
Where  in  all  your  travels  have  you  breathed 
the  like?" 

"  Bah,  Louis !  why  speak  of  it  ?  The  air  is 
good  and  refreshing,  but  you  have  not  tasted 
the  strong  air  of  the  plains,  in  comparison 
with  which  the  air  of  Laval  is  moist,  soft,  with 
out  vigor.  I  who  have  traveled  in  the  far 
West  know  what  it  is  to  fill  the  lungs  with 
ozone  as  one  rides  chasing  the  buffalo  and  the 
antelope.  Ah,  Louis,  those  were  days,  that 
was  air!" 

Louis  gave  an  incredulous  look  at  his 
brother,  but  could  read  nothing  in  his  sphinx- 
like  face,  and  turned  away  with  a  shrug,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "How  is  that  possible?" 

Presently,  as  they  were  crossing  the  long 
meadow  below  the  hill,  with  the  eager  haste 
that  only  anglers  know,  the  sky  began  to 
brighten,  passing  imperceptibly  through  all 
the  changes  of  color,  from  pearly  gray  to 
blue  and  red  and  gold.  Then,  as  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  touched  the  moun- 


tain  tops,  Louis  could  remain  silent  no 
longer. 

"  Look,  'Poleon !  look  at  those  mountains  as 
they  shine  in  the  sunlight.  See  how  the  dark- 
green  hills  wear  a  tuque  of  gold.  They  are 
the  true  habitants,  always  faithful,  our  good 
old  friends.  How  fine  they  are!  You  have 
never  seen  mountains  like  these  in  any  foreign 
land.  Is  it  not  so  'Poeon?" 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Louis,  to  talk  like  that  to 
me  who  has  seen  the  rockies.  I  tell  you, 
what  you  call  mountains  are  nothing  but  foot 
hills, — I  who  have  seen  the  canyon  of  the  Colo 
rado,  five  thousand  feet  from  the  river-bed  to 
the  summit  of  the  rocks  above.  And  those 
rocks,  yellow  and  red  and  purple,  all  the  col 
ors.  Mon  Dieu !  What  folly  to  compare 
these  stupid  ant-hills  with  those  temples  of 
the  gods.  Louis,  be  silent." 

"Surely,"  thought  Louis,  "something  is 
the  matter  with  Brother  'Poleon.  It  is 
not  often  that  he  talks  like  that.  He  will 
feel  better,  perhaps,  when  he  sees  the  river 


and    begins 
trout." 

So  Louis  kept  silent  as 
they  entered  the  cool,  dark 
woods,  and  strode  rapidly 
along  a  winding  path, 
while  the  sound  of  the 
s  w  i  f  t-fl  owing  Montmo- 
rency  grew  louder  on  their 
ears.  In  the  rich  soil  be 
neath  the  shade  of  birch  and 
maple  grew  the  flowers  of 
June,  the  oxalis,  the  pyrola, 
the  dog- wood,  the  gold 
thread,  and  the  twin-flower 
beloved  by  the  good  Lin 
naeus.  Napoleon  looked  at 
them  in  silence  as  he  passed 
along,  and  Louis  knew  that 
no  words  of  his  were  needed 
to  praise  the  wild-flowers 
of  his  native  land. 

Suddenly  the  path  came 


\ 


\ 


to  an  end,  the  prospect 
widened,  and  there  was 
the  river,  glistening  in  the 
morning  sunlight,  dancing 
along  over  its  pebbly  bed, 
forming  little  rapids,  swirl 
ing  eddies,  and  clear  pools 
flecked  with  white  bits  of 
foam. 

"  There     now,     'Poleon, 

\j  there  is  the  old  river,  our 
river,  just  as  she  was  ten 
years  ago,  when  you  and  I 
went  fishing  together  for 
the  last  time.  Look  at 
that  fine  stretch  of  water 
up  there.  How  green  the 

M  t  r  e  e  s  along  the  bank ! 
How  blue  the  sky  and  how 
white  the  clouds!  And 
see  that  kingfisher  as  he 
flies  along,  the  thief.  But 
observe  that  ledge  of  rock 

*'*'""  x        XJ 


there  below,  with  the  deep  pool  and  the 
back-eddy.  It  is  there  that  you  will  take  a 
trout  such  as  you  have  not  seen  in  years. 
Now,  'Poleon,  confess;  there  is  nothing  like 
that  in  foreign  lands." 

"Louis,  stop  your  idiotic  chatter.  This 
river,  I  have  seen  it  before,  many  a  time.  I 
know  all  about  it.  It  is  a  pretty  stream,  a 
pleasant  brook.  Certainly.  But,  Louis,  you 
fatigue  me  with  your  boasting.  Talk  about 
the  Yankee  and  his  blow.  Mon  Dieu,  Louis, 
you  also  have  some  blow.  And  you  talk  thus 
to  me,  to  me  who  has  seen  the  Missouri.  Ah, 
that  was  a  strong  river,  broad,  long,  perhaps 
four  thousand  miles  from  the  mountains  to 
the  sea.  Yes,  that  was  a  great  river.  This  Mont- 
morency,  it  is  a  pretty  brook,  good  enough  in 
its  way,  not  bad  for  Laval,  good  enough  for 
the  people  who  live  in  this  little  place.  O 
yes,  good  enough  for  them,  quite  good  enough. 
Confound  this  line,  it 's  tangled !  Louis,  do  n't 
make  me  talk.  I  '11  not  listen  to  you." 

Thereupon  Napoleon  set  up  his  rod,  reeled 


out  his  line,  attached  a  leader,  then  a  Coach 
man  and  a  Brown  Hackle,  waded  out  into  the 
river  as  far  as  he  could  go,  and,  after  a  few 
preliminary  flourishes  of  rod  and  line,  dexter 
ously  cast  his  flies  into  the  swirling  water  at 
the  head  of  the  pool. 

The  response  was  sudden,  and  the  taciturn 
Napoleon  could  not  conceal  his  surprise  and 
delight. 

"  See,  Louis,  he  is  there,  the  big  fellow.  I 
have  him!  Ah,  missed!  Once  more.  An 
other  try." 

This  time,  as  the  fly  lightly  touched  the 
water,  a  dark  form  rose  and  sank  and  made 
away  with  hook  and  line  as  fast  as  the  strong, 
lithe  tail  could  move. 

"  There,  'Poleon,  you  have  him,  the  old  fel 
low.  Not  too  much  line!  Here  he  comes! 
Take  in,  take  in !  There  he  goes !  No  fear, 
he  is  well  hooked.  Sapre,  see  him  jump! 
Gently  now.  He  's  tired.  No,  off  again. 
Back  once  more.  He 's  swimming  up.  I  see 
him.  Caution,  'Poleon.  I  '11  take  him  in  my 


hands.  Here  he  comes. 
There,  my  good  fellow,  I 
have  you." 

Louis  held  up  the  prize, 
gleaming,  dripping,  flop 
ping  his  big  tail,  a  magnifi 
cent  fish,  the  king  of  the 
river. 

"See  there,  'Poleon,  see 
there!  Have  you  ever 
seen  such  a  trout  ?  Long  ? 
Twenty-two  inches  at  the 
very  least.  And  thick. 
Ah,  a  big  fellow!  Look 
at  those  spots,  red,  blue, 
yellow.  And  see  those 
fins  and  that  tail.  'Poleon, 
he  weighs  not  less  than 
six  pounds.  What  luck! 
Now  tell  the  truth,  'Poleon, 
have  you  ever  before  seen 
such  a  trout,  such  a 
speckled  brook  trout ? 


:\ 


Twenty-two  inches  and  six 
?:ounds?  No  fish  story!" 
"  Louis,"  said  Napoleon, 
regaining  his  composure, 
"it  is  not  a  bad  fish,  not 
bad  for  a  trout.  No,  I 
have  not  taken  a  trout 
like  this  except  in  a  lake. 
But  the  trout  is  a  small 
fish,  very  small.  I  who 
have  caught  catfish  in  the 
Ohio — .  Yes,  c  a  t  fi  s  h , 
Louis.  Do  not  smile.  Cat 
fish,  I  say,  fifty  pounds, 
yes,  eighty  pounds,  at  the 
very  least.  I  caught  him, 
I,  Napoleon  Vaillantcoeur, 
and  with  this  very  rod. 
Yes,  it  demands  a  struggle. 
Nearly  half  a  day  did  he 
swim  about  in  that  river, 
the  Ohio,  before  I  could 
get  him  near  the  gaff. 


Talk  to  me  of  trout.  This  is  a  good  trout, 
but  one  must  not  begin  to  compare.  You 
should  have  seen  that  catfish.  Truly,  that 
was  a  fish." 

Louis  was  crushed.  He  had  nothing  more 
to  say,  and  for  a  long  time  he  did  not  speak  a 
word.  Yet  gradually  his  spirits  rose,  for  the 
day  was  fine,  the  water  clear,  and  the  hungry 
trout  rose  eagerly  to  the  fly  from  every  pool 
and  every  long  shining  riffle.  For  a  mile  or 
more  they  fished  up  the  stream,  then  down 
again,  and  when,  toward  evening,  they 
climbed  the  long  hill  on  the  way  home,  each 
bore  a  heavy  creel  filled  with  speckled  beau 
ties,  besides  the  six-pounder  that  Louis  carried 
on  a  forked  willow-branch.  It  was  the  catch 
of  the  season.  Louis  was  overjoyed,  and  the 
imperturbable  Napoleon  could  not  conceal  his 
satisfaction  at  the  outcome  of  the  day's  sport. 
It  was  Louis'  last  chance  to  entice  his  brother 
into  some  admission  of  the  superiority  of  the 
old  home. 

"But,   'Poleon,   Laval   is   not   such   a   bad 


place.  One  is  comfortable  here.  One  does 
not  work  too  hard,  and  now  and  then  one  has 
time  to  enjoy  life  as  we  have  done  to-day. 
There  is  always  enough  to  eat,  plenty  of 
clothes  to  wear,  and  a  roof  over  one's  head.  In 
summer  it  is  not  too  hot  and  in  winter  there 
is  wood  for  the  fire.  There  are  no  paupers  in 
this  parish.  We  are  not  rich,  but  we  have 
good  health,  kind  friends,  a  school,  a  church, 
a  good  priest.  What  more  could  one  ask  of 
the  good  God  ?  One  could  be  contented  here, 
could  one  not?" 

"There  you  go  again,  Louis,  with  your 
stupid  talk.  Ah,  bah !  What  do  you  know 
of  the  world,  you  who  have  traveled  no  farther 
than  Quebec  ?  I  who  have  seen  Chicago,  with 
its  great  buildings,  its  churches  and  theaters, 
its  streets  and  parks,  I  tell  you,  Louis,  there  is 
nothing  here,  nothing.  Talk  of  paupers,  they 
are  all  paupers  here,  every  one.  Enough  to 
eat  ?  Enough  of  black  bread,  pea-soup,  and 
fat  pork.  Too  much,  Louis,  far  too  much. 
How  glad  I  am  to  have  some  fresh  trout  for 


supper !  Come,  Louis, 
come  with  me  to-morrow 
morning.  You  have  staid 
here  long  enough.  Now 
you  shall  see  the  world. 
After  that  you  may  come 
back  to  Laval,  if  you  wish. 
But  you  will  not  wish  it. 
No,  it  will  be  impossible, 
forever.  Forever !  One 
might  think  of  that,  per 
haps.  Yes,  it  is  to  be  con 
sidered." 

Arriving  at  the  house 
they  changed  their  clothes 
and  sat  down  to  supper 
with  a  good  appetite.  A 
good  appetite  and  a  good 
meal,  what  could  be  better 
than  that?  They  ate  of  the 
trout  they  had  just  caught, 
the  smaller  ones,  fried  with 
eggs,  a  dish  for  a  king. 


^ 


\ 


\ 


After  that  they  had  wild 
strawberries  and  cream, 
and  finally  a  bowl  of  hot 
tea.  The  soul  of  Napoleon 
was  refreshed,  his  heart 
was  softened. 

After  supper  the  neigh 
bors  came  in  to  bid  him 
good-bye,  his  old  school 
fellows.  They  sat  together 
on  the  door-step,  smoking 
their  pipes,  while  they 
talked  of  old  times  and  re 
newed  the  memories  of  for 
mer  days.  At  last  they 
went  away  with  many 
expressions  of  good- will. 
"Come  again,  Toleon," 
they  said,  "  you  are  always 
welcome." 

Napoleon  and  Louis  sat 
together  in  the  dim  star 
light,  smoking  vigorously. 


For  a  long  time  they  sat  thus,  silent,  thinking 
their  own  thoughts.  At  last  Louis  said :  "Well, 
'Poleon,  I  am  going  with  you  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  What,  Louis,  what  is  that  you  say  ?  You 
are  going  to  leave  Laval,  the  river,  the  moun 
tains,  the  church  of  our  fathers,  the  little  vil 
lage,  the  friends  that  you  love  ?  How  can  you 
doit,  Brother  Louis?" 

"  Yes,  'Poleon,  there  is  nothing  here.  I  am 
tired  of  it  all.  There,  now!  Don't  you  re 
member  what  you  said  this  morning?  Our 
mountains,  for  example,  what  are  they  in  com 
parison  with  the  great  Rockies?" 

"The  Rockies!  Louis,  you  amuse  me.  If 
you  had  seen  them  you  would  not  talk  like 
that.  No  trees,  no  verdure,  nothing  but  rough 
masses  of  rock,  bare,  cheerless,  painful  to  the 
eye.  Your  mountains,  Louis,  they  are  wonder 
fully  beautiful  in  comparison  with  those  for 
lorn  pyramids  of  stone.  Rocky,  stony,  yes, 
they  are  well  named." 

"'Poleon,  it  is  curious  to  hear  you  sp 


thus  after  what  you  said  this  very  day.  You 
have  surely  not  forgotten  the  opinion  you  had 
about  our  miserable  little  river  and  the  grand, 
beautiful  Missouri !" 

"The  Missouri  River!  Heavens!  If  you 
could  see  it.  It  is  a  river  of  mud,  a  mad  tor 
rent  of  turbulent,  swirling  mud.  You  have 
seen  the  Montmorency  at  the  time  of  spring 
floods.  Well,  the  Missouri  is  like  that  all  the 
time.  But  the  water  of  your  river,  it  is  a  pleas 
ure  to  drink  it  as  it  flows  clear  and  cool  over 
the  great  pebbles.  And  the  rapids,  the  white 
foam,  the  pools,  the  bending  trees,  the  shadows. 
Louis,  it  is  Paradise  and  the  river  of  God. 
Do  not  think  that  you  will  see  the  like  in  any 
foreign  country.  The  Missouri!  Sapre  ton- 
nerre !" 

"  You  are  a  strange  man,  Toleon.  And  the 
catfish  of  the  Ohio,  what  have  you  to  say  to 
that  now?" 

"Catfish,  you  credulous  fool.  Louis,  have 
you  ever  seen  a  catfish  ?  Name  of  a  pig !  As 
well  catch  a  sunken  log.  Call  it  sport  to  take 


a  catfish.  But  that  trout 
of  this  morning, — Louis,  I 
tell  you,  it  was  the  event 
of  a  lifetime,  the  taking  of 
it.  Mon  Dieu,  how  it  came 
at  my  fly,  how  it  started 
down  the  pool,  how  it 
leaped  from  the  water  and 
circled  round  and  round! 
I  shall  remember  it  till  I 
die.  It  is  the  glory  of  my 
life  to  have  caught  it. 
Sport!  Ah,  Louis,  that 
was  true  pleasure.  And 
to  think  that  I  must  leave 
it  all,  perhaps  never  to  re 
turn.  Catfish !  Name  of 
the  devil !  You  poor  idiot. 
To  compare  a  miserable 
catfish  to  the  beauty,  the 
agility  of  the  trout !  Mon 
Dieu,  Louis,  do  not  leave 
Laval  because  of  a  catfish." 


1 


' 


"But  Chicago,  Toleon, 
with  its  great  buildings,  its 
wonderful  churches,  its 
fine  theaters,  and  all  that. 
That's  what  I  want  to 
see/' 

"Louis,  I  tell  you,  you 
are  insane,  a  raving  luna 
tic.  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
Chicago.  It  is  a  city  I 
detest.  The  air?  Yes, 
like  that  of  purgatory. 
The  churches  ?  I  have  not 
seen  them.  The  great 
buildings  ?  Hideous !  The 
winds?  They  pierce  one 
to  the  bone.  Stand  by 
your  mountains,  Louis, 
your  beautiful  valley,  your 
clear  air,  your  pure  water. 
Remain  where  you  are 
well,  with  your  relations, 
your  friends,  that  girl  of 


yours.  Ah,  Louis,  that  was  a  home  thrust. 
I  see  you  blush  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 
Surely  you  would  not  leave  her,  the  one  that 
you  love." 

"O  no,  'Poleon,  I  will  come  back,  after  a 
time,  and  she  will  go  with  me  to  the  far  West, 
where  we  shall  make  our  fortune.  After  that 
we  will  return  to  live  in  Laval  for  the  rest  of 
our  days." 

"  No,  no,  Louis,  I  have  seen  enough  of  that. 
There  where  one  was  born  and  has  grown  up, 
there  one  should  stay,  and  the  women  above 
all.  Your  little  girl,  do  not  take  her  away 
from  Laval.  She  will  sigh  for  the  mountains, 
the  valleys,  the  clear  air,  the  blue  sky,  the  song 
of  the  birds,  the  friends  who  remain  behind. 
I  know  what  I  say.  It  is  for  that  reason  that 
I  leave  Laval,  the  home  of  my  early  years. 
There  is  also  one  that  I  love — yes,  here  in  this 
parish — a  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
a  true  blonde,  such  as  one  seldom  sees  among 
the  Canadians,  cheeks  red  as  a  strawberry,  lips 
such  as  one  would  like  to  kiss.  When  I  went 


away  she  was  a  mere  child  of  eight  years,  and 
I  said  to  myself,  "In  ten  years  I  will  return 
for  her."  To  this  I  have  looked  forward  for 
many  years,  and  here  I  am  at  last  and  I  shall 
go  away  without  her.  But  she  is  more  beauti 
ful  than  ever.  She  fills  my  heart.  Her  smile 
is  like  the  ripple  of  the  Montmorency.  Her 
laughter  is  like  the  sound  of  a  little  golden 
bell.  Mon  Dieu,  how  I  love  that  little  girl! 
And  yet  I  leave  her.  And  why?  Because  I 
will  not  take  her  to  that  mining  camp  in  Ne 
vada,  where  I  must  live,  since  all  that  I  have  in 
the  world  is  there.  To-morrow  morning  I  go 
away  alone  and  this  dear  place  I  may  never 
see  again.  Louis,  it  is  not  easy  to  do  this." 

"  'Poleon,"  said  Louis,  growing  very  pale, 
"  who  is  this  girl  ?  There  can  be  only  one  such 
in  Laval." 

"There  is  only  one,  Louis,  only  one  in  all 
the  world,  my  brother." 

"Then  it  is  Madeleine,  Toleon,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  Louis,  it  is  she.  And  now  it  is  your 
turn.  I  have  confessed.  Who  is  it,  Louis?" 


"  The  same,  'Poleon, 
there  is  no  other.  'Poleon, 
I  will  leave  Laval  in  the 
morning  and  you  shall 
stay  with  Madeleine." 

"Bah!  Louis,  Laval  is 
a  stupid  hole,  no  good  at 
all.  Hurrah  for  Chicago! 
Hurrah  for  Nevada !  It  is 
there  that  one  finds  life 
worth  living.  Live  in  La 
val?  Louis,  you  laugh  at 
me.  What  should  I  do  in 
Laval  ?  Marry  a  little  hab 
itant  girl  ?  Ridiculous ! 
See  me  at  the  age  of  fifty, 
an  old  habitant  with  a 
wife  and  ten  children* 
more  or  less.  Grandchil 
dren  also !  Morbleu !  It 
is  not  alluring,  the  pro 
spect.  Better  Nevada  and 
the  gold  mines.  Better  a 


short  life  ana  a  merry  one.     Mon  Dieu,  how  late 
it  is !    We  have  talked  foolishness,  Louis.    Good 
night,  old  man.    Wake  me  before  sunrise.    Laval 
is  the  place  for  you,  that  is  not  | 
hard  to  see." 

The  next  morning,  as  Louis  I/ 
and  Napoleon  passed  the  house 
where  Madeleine  lived,  there  was 
the  flutter  of  a  white  handker 
chief  at  the  window.  Napoleon 
saw  it,  but  passed  on  without 
sign.  Half  an  hour  later,  as  the 
cart  rattled  over  the  slope  of  a 
distant  hill,  looking  back  Na- J 
poleon  still  could  see  the  flutter 
of  white  where  Madeleine  lived, 
queen  of  his  heart. 


VI. 
THE  MISER. 


•fj^ 


THE  MISER. 


THE  MISER. 

1. 

IT  was  very  curious,  the  life  of  Louis  Vaillant- 
coeur  after  the  departure  of  his  Brother  Napo 
leon.  The  farm  was  left  to  him,  also  the  girl, 
and  surely  he  had  every  reason  to  be  happy. 
As  to  the  farm,  that  was  all  right;  but  as  to 
Madeleine,  that  was  quite  another  thing.  One 
might  think  that  she  consented  to  marry  him  on 
the  first  time  of  asking,  but  not  at  all.  She 
would  not  consider  him  for  a  moment,  and  even 
accused  him  of  being  unfaithful  to  his  brother, 
of  trying  to  supplant  him  in  his  property  and  in 
the  affection  of  his  friends. 
10 


Nor  did  Madeleine  appreciate  the  sacrifice  of 
Napoleon  in  giving  her  up.  On  the  contrary, 
she  could  not  forgive  him  for  having  gone 
away  without  a  word,  and  all  for  the  sake  of 
his  much  loved  but  unworthy  brother.  A  fig 
for  such  brotherly  love,  so  regardless  of  the 
feelings  of  others.  The  brothers  Vaillantcoeur 
were  nothing  to  her,  nor  ever  could  be,  and 
whether  they  went  to  Nevada  or  staid  in 
Laval  was  quite  their  own  affair.  So  Made 
leine  shed  no  tears,  in  so  far  as  any  one  knew, 
and  appeared  to  be  as  gay  and  happy  as  ever, 
but  presently  she  went  away  to  visit  some 
cousins  at  Chateau  Richer  and  to  acquire  ac 
complishments  at  the  convent  in  that  parish. 

Of  Napoleon  not  a  single  word  was  heard 
from  the  day  of  his  departure,  neither  letter 
nor  news  of  any  kind.  It  was  as  though  the 
vast  outer  world,  like  a  great  monster,  had 
swallowed  him  up  the  moment  that  he  left 
the  quiet  shelter  of  Ste.  Brigitte  de  Laval. 
He  had  disappeared  utterly,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
forever.  The  neighbors  said  that  he  must  be 


dead,  else  he  would  have 
written,  for  he  was  a  fine 
scholar  and  always  used  to 
write  home  at  frequent  in 
tervals.  But  Louis  clung 
to  the  belief  that  he  was 
alive,  probably  unsuccessful 
in  his  ventures,  unwilling 
to  confess  defeat  and 
ashamed  to  return  to  his 
old  home  with  the  stigma 
of  failure  upon  his  name. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that 
Louis,  abandoned  by  his 
brother,  rejected  by  the 
girl  he  loved,  living  alone 
upon  the  farm,  remote 
from  the  neighbors,  at 
some  distance,  also,  from 
the  public  road,  developed 
some  of  the  worst  charac 
teristics  of  the  Canadian 
habitants,  and  began  to 


Mil 


- 


lose  that  vivacity  of  dispo 
sition  and  politeness  of 
manner  which  makes  their 
life,  sordid  though  it  may 
be,  harmonious  and  beau 
tiful.  Thus  Louis  Vail- 
lantcoeur,  once  so  gay  and 
debonair,  became  in  an  un 
due  degree  morose  and  tac 
iturn,  and,  worse  than  all, 
he  became  an  inveterate 
and  outrageous  miser. 

It  is  not  by  earning  a 
large  income  that  a  habi 
tant  can  become  rich,  but 
by  incessant  industry,  uni 
ted  to  the  most  rigorous 
and  persistent  economy. 
Louis  had  tho  roughly 
grasped  this  important 
truth,  and  set  himself  to 
the  practice  of  it  with  all 
energy  and  tenacity  of 


his  being.  Not  one  source  of  revenue,  however 
insignificant,  was  overlooked,  and  the  needless 
expenditure  of  a  single  sou  was  as  painful  to 
him  as  the  loss  of  an  old  and  valued  friend. 

Many  were  the  tales  that  the  neighbors  told 
of  Louis  and  his  penurious  ways.  In  winter, 
when  the  roads  were  good,  all  the  habitants 
used  to  haul  wood  on  sleighs  to  Beauport, 
twelve  or  fifteen  miles  away,  but  Louis,  for  the 
sake  of  a  better  price,  would  go  on  five  miles 
further,  to  Quebec,  although,  after  paying  toll 
at  the  bridge,  the  extra  money  was  hardly 
sufficient  to  buy  a  meal  at  the  cheapest  hotel 
in  town,  not  to  speak  of  a  little  drink  of 
whisky  to  keep  out  the  cold  on  the  way  home. 
Louis,  however,  never  spent  any  money  for 
drink,  nor  did  he  pay  anything  for  food  at 
Quebec,  for  in  St.  Roch,  not  far  from  the  mar 
ket,  dwelt  a  distant  cousin,  one  Boulanger,  at 
whose  house  Louis  always  arrived  at  the  hour  of 
dinner,  and  where  he  was  never  refused  a  bowl 
of  hot  pea-soup,  with  all  the  bread  and  bacon 
that  he  could  eat.  This  was  wonderful  gen- 


erosity,  for  Louis  had  by  nature  a  great  appe 
tite,  and,  if  one  may  believe  the  neighbors,  he 
left  home  on  market  days  without  his  break 
fast,  and  did  not  eat  another  meal  until  the 
middle  of  the  following  day. 

Cousin  Boulanger  thought  to  get  even  with 
Louis  by  sending  his  two  boys  every  summer 
to  spend  the  vacation  at  Laval,  but  Louis  knew 
how  to  make  use  of  them,  for,  when  there  was 
no  work  to  do  in  the  fields,  he  would  send 
them  to  gather  strawberries,  raspberries  or 
blueberries,  according  to  the  season,  and  these 
always  brought  a  good  price  in  the  city  mar 
kets.  When  there  were  no  berries,  Louis  sent 
the  lads  to  the  woods  to  gather  balsam  and 
spruce  gum,  sarsaparilla,  gold-thread,  moss, 
and  birch-bark  for  causeaux  in  which  to  pack 
maple  sugar  in  the  following  spring.  Even 
when  the  young  Boulangers  were  permitted  to 
go  fishing,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  profit  to 
Louis,  for  they  frequently  returned  with  ten 
or  twelve  dozen  of  fine  trout,  for  which  Louis 
could  obtain  as  much  as  twenty  cents  a  dozen 


at  the  Hotel  St.  Louis  at 
Quebec. 

Strange  to  say,  the 
young  citizens  did  not 
think  it  any  hardship  to 
be  obliged  to  do  these 
things.  On  the  contrary, 
they  regarded  it  as  play, 
and  since  they  had  plenty 
of  good  bread  and  butter 
to  eat,  besides  berries  and 
cream,  eggs  and  trout,  with 
now  and  then  a  taste  of 
wild-fowl,  squirrel,  ground 
hog  or  bear,  for  Louis  un 
derstood  the  importance  of 
feeding  them  well,  they 
prospered  exceedingly,  and 
in  the  month  of  September 
returned  to  the  Seminary 
strong  and  fat,  a  joy  to 
their  parents  and  a  terror 
to  all  the  petty  tyrants 


of  the  school,  not  except 
ing  the  young  ecclesiastics, 
their  teachers.  But  Louis 
Vaillantcoeur  rejoiced  in 
the  addition  of  many  dol- 
1  a  r  s  to  his  increasing 
hoard,  and  gloated,  like  the 
miser  he  was,  over  his  cun 
ning  exploitation  of  the 
family  Boulanger. 

Not  only  did  Louis  thus 
deceive  and  plunder  his 
own  relatives,  but  all  with 
whom  he  had  any  dealings 
were  treated  in  a  similar 
way,  and  frequently  with 
out  being  conscious  of  the 
deception.  So  debased  did 
he  become,  as  the  neigh 
bors  said,  that  he  would 
cheat  even  the  Holy 
Church,  in  the  person  of 
the  cure,  to  whom  every 


year  tithes  were  due  from  all  the  faithful, 
every  twenty-sixth  bushel  of  oats  and  bundle 
of  hay,  every  tenth  pig,  besides  other  contri 
butions,  according  to  the  prosperity  of  the  par 
ishioners  and  the  abundance  of  the  harvest. 
Louis  could  not  altogether  avoid  these  pay 
ments,  for  it  was  not  possible  to  conceal  his 
fields  of  hay,  oats  and  potatoes,  and  the  arrival 
of  a  litter  of  pigs  was  a  matter  of  notoriety  in 
the  community,  but  there  was  always  a  mys 
terious  shrinkage  when  it  came  to  the  payment 
of  tithes,  causing  disappointment  to  the  cure 
and  scandal  among  the  parishioners.  The  cure 
could  not  detect  the  fraud,  but  it  was  a  satis 
faction  to  think  that  the  good  God  knew  all 
about  it,  and,  sooner  or  later,  would  bring  ven 
geance  upon  the  head  of  the  sacrilegious 
miser. 

Meanwhile,  the  miser  was  well  content  to 
lay  up  treasure  on  earth,  while  the  good  cure 
acquired  merit  in  heaven,  for  he  never  went 
to  mass,  nor  confession,  lest  he  should  put  him 
self  in  the  way  of  receiving  the  condemnation 


which  he  deserved,  and  which  the  cure  was  at 
all  times  ready  to  give.  Sad  penance  would 
Louis  have  to  do  when  the  time  came,  as  come 
it  must,  when  he  should  require  the  services  of 
the  Church  in  the  hour  of  trouble.  In  that 
day  of  wrath  he  would  have  to  restore  four 
fold,  and  afflict  his  body  by  fastings,  vigils,  and 
prayers  innumerable. 

Thus  Louis  Vaillantcoeur  led  a  godless,  love 
less  life,  and  his  soul,  deprived  of  the  spiritual 
light  and  air  whereby  it  lived,  became  small 
and  feeble,  withered  and  dry,  a  mere  remnant 
and  vestige  of  its  former  self.  But  the  avari 
cious  part  of  Louis  grew  and  expanded  until 
it  filled  his  being,  and  every  thought,  every 
wish,  had  to  do  with  the  getting  of  money, 
and  the  safe-keeping  of  his  rapidly  increasing 
hoard.  For  his  yearly  savings,  though  small, 
in  the  course  of  time  amounted  to  a  consider 
able  sum,  a  treasure  such  as  no  other  habitant 
of  Laval  had  ever  been  able  to  accumulate. 
He  kept  it,  the  neighbors  said,  in  a  hole  in  the 
floor  under  his  bed,  and  often,  in  the  dead  of 


night,  a  gleam  of  light 
could  be  seen  through  the 
window,  by  which,  no 
doubt,  the  miser,  seated  in 
the  midst  of  piles  of  gold, 
was  counting  and  recount 
ing  the  savings  of  many 
years. 

Thus  the  years  passed 
away,  until  ten  years  had 
gone  since  the  departure  of 
Brother  Napoleon.  Louis 
remembered,  what  he  had 
never  forgotten,  that  Na 
poleon  had  said,  in  part 
ing  :  "In  ten  years,  if  pos 
sible,  I  will  come  again." 
And  now,  on  the  tenth  an 
niversary  of  that  day,  he 
waited  and  watched  for  the 
fulfillment  of  that  promise. 

All  day  he  staid  about 
the  house,  frequently 


ing  to  the  door  and  look 
ing  wistfully  down  the 
valley  for  one  who  did  not 
come. 

"This  is  the  last  day," 
he  said.  "If  Napoleon  is 
alive  he  will  be  here ;  if  he 
does  not  come  he  must  be 
dead." 

So  he  waited,  as  one  who 
looks  for  a  miracle,  expect 
ing  yet  doubting,  hoping 
yet  fearful,  confident  and 
yet  near  to  despair.  When 
night  fell,  and  the  valley 
was  shrouded  in  mist,  he 
listened  for  the  coming  of 
his  brother,  but  heard  only 
the  cry  of  the  owl  and  the 
croak  of  the  frogs  in  the 
marsh  near  the  river.  At 
midnight  he  said :  "  Napo 
leon  is  dead.  This  is  the 


end."  Then  he  went  about  his  usual  work  of 
preparation  for  market,  got  ready  his  horse 
and  cart,  with  a  load  of  potatoes,  cabbages, 
onions,  and  other  vegetables,  and,  long  before 
daybreak,  took  the  road  for  Quebec,  as  he  had 
done  so  many  times  before. 

But  underneath  the  pile  of  vegetables  was  a 
bag  of  gold,  containing,  it  is  said,  at  least  two 
thousand  dollars,  the  result  of  Louis'  extreme 
industry  and  frugality  during  the  previous  ten 
years.  He  was  taking  it  to  Quebec,  some  say, 
to  put  it  in  the  bank ;  others  declare  that  he 
intended  to  give  it  to  Madeleine ;  while  others, 
with  greater  probability,  assert  that  the  entire 
amount  was  to  be  spent  in  masses  for  the 
soul  of  Brother  Napoleon.  However  that 
may  be,  the  bag  of  gold  reposed  in  the  bottom 
of  the  cart,  and  Louis  drove  on  through  the 
night,  up  and  down  the  long  sandy  hills,  now 
on  the  shoulder  of  a  dark,  forest-clad  moun 
tain,  now  along  the  banks  of  the  Montmorency 
River,  now  down  the  long  slope  which  stretches 
from  the  hills  to  the  great  St.  Lawrence,  until, 


at  the  first  glimmer  of  dawn,  he  turned  upon 
the  broad,  well-kept  Beauport  road. 

A  dense  fog  hung  over  the  Beauport  flats, 
concealing  not  only  the  twin  spires  of  the  par 
ish  church  and  the  gray  walls  of  the  ruined 
mill,  but  even  the  white  cottages  on  either 
side  of  the  road,  while  in  front  nothing  could 
be  seen  but  the  bank  of  fog,  which  opened  to 
allow  Louis  to  drive  through,  and  immediately 
closed  in  behind,  as  though  to  hide  him  and 
his  treasure  from  the  prying  eyes  of  a  too 
curious  world. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  fog  came  the  sound  of 
a  strong  tenor  voice,  singing  a  song  once  dear 
to  the  heart  of  Louis,  an  ancient  lay  of  a 
lover  and  his  rejected  love : — 

"A  la  claire  fontaine 
M'en  allant  promener, 
J'ai  trouv<3  1'eau  si  belle, 
Que  je  m'y  suis  baigner." 

Louis  stopped  to  listen.  The  song  was  long 
and  sad,  but  the  singer  went  on  to  the  very 
end,  telling  how  his  lady  had  forsaken  him  be- 


cause  of   a  rose  which  he 
refused  to  give   to  her: — 

"Je  voudrais  que  la  rose 
Fut  encore  ail  rosier, 
Et  que  le  rosier  m6me 
Fut  dans  la  mer  jete. 
Y'a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime  ; 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublirai." 

And  then  it  came  to 
Louis  that  he  had  heard 
his  brother,  Napoleon,  sing 
that  very  song  on  the  oc 
casion  of  his  last  visit  to 
Laval.  Not  only  so,  but 
the  voice,  it  was  the  same ; 
yes,  it  was  his  brother's 
voice;  he  had  come  back, 
and  there  he  was,  there  on 
the  Beauport  road  near  the 
bridge.  Quickly  he  urged 
forward  his  horse. 

"  Hola !  Napoleon. 
Hola!  my  brother.  It  is 
I,  Louis.  'Poleon,  my 


\  » 


[fT 


_ . 


\ 


brother,  I  am  here.  'Po- 
leon!  Toleon!" 

The  voice  ceased  sud 
denly;  a  sound  of  loud 
barking  filled  the  air ;  and 
out  of  the  fog  emerged 
the  form  of  a  beggar  in  a 
d  o  g-cart,  a  long-haired, 
ragged  beggar,  driving  a 
big  Newfoundland  dog  as 
shaggy  as  himself. 

"Sacre,"  said  Louis, 
"what  have  we  here?  A 
beggar,  as  I  live.  Ho! 
beggar,  have  you  seen  my 
brother,  my  Brother  'Po- 
leon,  Napoleon  Vaillant- 
coeur,  he  who  was  singing 
a  moment  since?" 

"  It  was  I  who  sang,  my 
friend,"  replied  the  beg 
gar,  in  a  whining  voice, 
''it  was  I  who  sang  for 

I  -  ^        k^ 


bread.  Charity,  charity,  if  you  plaese,  for  the 
love  of  God !  Charity,  charity,  I  am  dying  of 
hunger." 

"Bah!"  said  Louis  in  disgust.  "Bah!  you 
fat  thief,  you  lazy  rascal!  Rascal,  I  say!" 
And  Louis  in  his  anger  struck  at  the  beggar 
with  his  whip,  not  hurting  him  much,  perhaps, 
but  certainly  arousing  his  temper,  and  a  ter 
rible  temper  it  was.  It  was  a  fine  rage,  a  mag 
nificent  passion.  The  beggar's  face  grew  pur 
ple,  his  eyes  seemed  to  jump  out  of  his  head, 
his  hair  to  stand  on  end,  while  his  hands  were 
lifted  to  heaven  and  his  mouth  opened  to  dis 
gorge  a  volley  of  curses  such  as  were  seldom 
heard  along  the  Beauport  road. 

"Rascal,  I!  I  a  rascal!  Name  of  a  pig! 
Rascal  yourself,  you  cursed  habitant,  miserable 
soup-eater,  miser,  blood-sucker,  beast,  devil!" 

With  these  and  many  more  words  of  vio 
lence,  the  beggar  and  his  dog,  both  furious, 
precipitated  themselves  upon  Louis,  as  though 
to  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 

Louis  himself  was  sufficiently  alarmed,  but 


the  horse,  a  quiet  country  animal,  bolted  in 
sheer  terror,  galloping  at  fearful  speed  along 
the  road  toward  Quebec,  and  did  not  cease  his 
mad  career  until  he  arrived,  panting  and  ex 
hausted,  at  the  bridge  over  the  St.  Charles, 
where  travelers  from  all  the  northern  parishes 
pay  toll  as  they  enter  the  ancient  capital. 

But  Louis  Vaillantcoeur  paid  no  toll  on  this 
occasion.  On  the  contrary,  he  returned,  as 
quickly  as  possible,  by  the  way  he  had  come, 
for  all  the  vegetables  that  he  was  bringing  to 
market  had  disappeared  from  the  cart,  and  the 
bag  of  gold,  that  gold  which  he  had  loved 
more  than  life,  more  even  than  his  eternal 
salvation,  was  gone. 

Near  the  place  of  his  encounter  with  the 
beggar  he  found  the  vegetables  lying  on  the 
ground  where  they  had  fallen,  but  the  bag 
of  gold  was  not  there.  The  beggar,  too,  had 
disappeared, 

All  was  quiet  on  the  Beauport  road,  for  it  was 
still  an  hour  before  sunrise  and  darker  than 
usual  because  of  the  fog,  so  that  the  good 


people  of  Beauport,  usually 
early  risers,  still  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  righteous,  the 
blessed  reward  of  honest 
toil.  Not  even  the  curses 
of  the  beggar  had  dis 
turbed  their  repose.  But 
now  Louis,  thinking  only 
of  his  terrible  loss,  aroused 
them  by  loud  knocking, 
and  they  were  not  pleased 
to  be  thus  rudely  awak 
ened. 

Had  they  seen  a  beggar 
with  a  dog  ? 

Certainly  not !  How 
could  they  see  him  when 
they  were  fast  asleep  ? 

Had  they  ever  seen  a 
beggar  like  the  one  Louis 
had  met  ? 

Of  course !  Assuredly ! 
There  were  many  beggars 


in  Beauport  and  they  all 
had  carts,  the  lazy  vaga 
bonds. 

M'sieu'  had  lost  a  bag  of 
gold,  two  thousand  dollars, 
he  said?  Mon  Dieu! 
What  rich  habitants  those 
people  of  Laval!  Was 
M'sieu'  de  Laval  sure  that 
it  was  not  twenty  thousand 
dollars?  What  a  loss! 
What  a  calamity ! 

Thus  the  citizens  of 
Beauport,  those  at  least 
who  were  awakened,  as 
they  thought,  at  an  un 
seemly  hour,  were  disposed 
to  ridicule  Louis,  to  look 
upon  him  with  pity  and 
contempt,  as  though  he 
were  a  harmless  lunatic,  a 
fit  candidate  for  the  neigh 
boring  asylum,  where 


there  were  many  who  imagined  themselves 
kings,  emperors,  popes,  and  millionaires. 

Not  all  the  people  of  Beauport  treated  Louis 
in  this  cavalier  fashion,  but  nowhere  did  he 
get  any  satisfaction,  or  any  information  that 
might  lead  to  the  recovery  of  his  treasure, 
though  he  received  some  sympathy  and  much 
advice.  Nobody  had  seen  a  beggar  such  as  he 
described.  Indeed,  it  was  the  general  opinion 
that  he  must  have  been  a  vagabond  from  some 
distant  parish  or  from  the  city,  from  Quebec 
or  even  Montreal.  It  might  be  well  to  apply  to 
the  police  of  those  cities ;  perhaps  they  might 
be  able  to  accomplish  something.  Assuredly, 
no  inhabitant  of  Beauport  would  dare  to  steal 
in  this  barefaced  way.  Besides,  most  of  the 
beggars  of  the  parish  had  homes  of  their  own 
and  were  good  Catholics,  who  went  to  mass 
and  to  confession  from  time  to  time,  and,  as 
was  well  known,  they  could  not  do  this  and  re 
tain  stolen  goods,  for  no  priest  would  grant 
absolution  without  restitution. 

This  is  what  Louis  should  do.     He  should 


go  to  the  priest,  and,  if  the  thief  were  a  resi 
dent  of  the  parish,  he  would  be  found  and 
compelled  to  restore  the  money.  The  money 
would  be  found,  without  a  doubt.  The  beg 
gar  would  be  seen.  He  could  not  disappear 
into  the  earth,  nor  vanish  into  the  air.  Cer 
tainly,  a  person  such  as  M'sieu'  had  described 
was  too  remarkable  to  escape  notice.  But  a 
reward  should  be  offered,  a  good,  substantial 
reward,  something  to  arouse  the  conscience 
and  encourage  honesty.  For  was  not  a  small 
sum  honestly  earned  better  than  a  vast  amount 
acquired  by  theft  ?  Money  may  be  lost,  but 
the  treasures  of  the  soul  could  never  be  taken 
away. 

The  simple  words  of  these  good  people  were 
as  daggers  to  the  heart  of  Louis  Vaillantcoeur, 
he  who  had  sacrificed  everything  in  the  getting 
of  money,  and  now  that  also  was  gone.  Words 
could  not  describe  the  penury  of  his  soul. 
His  soul  ?  It  was  a  question  whether  he  had 
a  soul,  whether  he  had  not  sold  that,  also,  to 
the  evil  one.  It  was  Louis  and  not  Napoleon 


who  would  need  the  ben 
efit  of  masses  and  the  in 
tercession  of  the  saints. 
But  of  what  use  were 
masses  to  a  lost  soul? 
What  prayers  could  reach 
the  infernal  depths  when 
the  soul  of  a  miser  went  to 
his  own  place?  He  who 
would  give  nothing,  what 
could  he  receive  ? 

At  the  close  of  a  long 
day  of  calamity  and  bitter 
disappointment,  Louis  ar 
rived,  tired  out  and  utterly 
discouraged,  at  the  little 
cluster  of  dwellings  that 
surround  the  church  of 
Ste.  Brigitte  de  Laval.  It 
was  a  dark  night,  so  dark 
that  Louis  thought  that  the 
black  clouds  would  never 
pass  away  and  the  stars 


mm 


.    -  -j.^w— •  » 

T 

- 


never    shine    again.      The 
little  world  was  asleep,  but 
from    the    presbytery    a 
bright     light     shone     out 
upon  the  night,  and  Louis 
knew  that  the  priest  was 
there,  one  who  could  throw 
light  upon  dark  places,  and 
would  gladly  turn  the  wan 
derer  into  the  way  of  God. 
An  inexplicable  longing 
came  upon  him  to  confess, 
as    he    had    not    done    for 
many  years,  to  pour  into 
the  ear  of  some  human  be 
ing  the  story  of  his  failure 
and  his  sin,  and  to  receive, 
if   not   the   forgiveness  of 
God,    at    least    the    sym 
pathy    of    man    and    the 
counsel  that  he  needed  so 
much.     So  he  went  up  to 
the    house,   but   before  he 


HI 


I  •::iKM:M^ 


I 


could  knock  the  door  was  opened  by  the  cure 
himself. 

"Come  in,  Louis,"  he  said,  "I  have  heard 
of  your  misfortune  and  I  thought  that  you 
would  come." 

To  this  good  man  Louis  told  the  story  of  his 
life  for  the  past  ten  years,  without  palliation  or 
excuse,  and,  as  he  confessed,  a  heavy  weight  was 
lifted  from  his  heart,  and  a  gleam  of  hope  illu 
mined  his  beclouded  spirit.  The  priest  no  longer 
seemed  like  a  minister  of  vengeance,  but  an  an 
gel  of  forgiveness,  bringing  peace  to  the  soul. 

"But,"  said  the  cure,  when  Louis  had  fin 
ished,  "why  did  you  do  all  this?  For  what 
purpose  was  all  this  wealth  which  you  accumu 
lated  at  such  a  cost?" 

"Did  I  not  mention  it,  M'sieu'  le  Cure  ?  It 
was  for  Brother  Napoleon,  of  course.  He  was 
to  have  it  upon  his  return,  and  the  farm  also, 
that  he  might  marry  Madeleine  and  live  in 
Laval  all  his  life.  ' 

"And  you,"  said  the  cure,  "what  would 
you  have  done?" 


"I  also  would  have  remained,"  said  Louis, 
"to  see  their  happiness.  That  would  have 
been  enough  for  me." 

"My  son,"  said  the  good  priest,  "the  sin  of 
avarice  is  a  mortal  sin.  It  is  the  love  of 
money  for  its  own  sake,  or  for  the  sake  of 
selfish  enjoyment.  But  when  a  man  engages 
in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  for  the  glory  of  God, 
or  for  the  good  of  others,  we  do  not  call  it 
avarice,  we  call  it  sublime  devotion." 

Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  cure  as  he 
pronounced  the  absolution  and  inflicted  light 
penance  for  certain  venal  sins,  and  the  stony 
heart  of  Louis  was  melted  and  became  a  heart 
of  flesh. 

"Louis,"  said  the  cure,  as  the  young  habi 
tant  rose  to  go,  "there  is  another  penitent 
here  whom  I  should  like  you  to  meet.  You 
have  seen  him  before,  I  think." 

They  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  there  stood 
the  beggar  of  the  morning,  the  same,  yet  not 
the  same,  for,  though  still  clad  in  rags,  he  had 
an  air  of  independence  and  prosperity  quite 


unprofessional  for  a  beg 
gar.  Also  he  smiled  pleas 
antly  as  he  held  out  a 
heavy  bag  of  gold. 

"There,"  he  said,  "there 
is  the  gold  that  M'sieu'  has 
lost.  And  I  am  sorry  that 
I  was  the  cause  of  so  much 
trouble." 

Louis  stared  at  him. 
"It  is  you,"  he  said,  "and 
I  was  unkind  to  you.  For 
give  me.  Ah,  the  gold! 
Will  you  not  keep  it  in 
memory  of  one  whom  I 
loved,  but  whom  I  shall 
never  see  again?" 

"Louis,"  said  the  beg 
gar,  in  the  old  familiar 
voice,  "  do  you  not  know 
me?  Is  it  possible  that  I 
have  changed  so  much?" 

16  'Poleon,"    said    Louis, 


'.Wti      Ir     i 


"  it  is  you.  It  is  indeed 
yourself,  my  brother,  after 
all  these  years.  'Poleon,  I 
ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"For  what,  Louis?  It 
is  I  who  ask  to  be  for 
given." 

And  the  brothers,  parted 
so  long,  embraced  one  an 
other  with  tears  of  joy. 

"  But  why,  Toleon,"  said 
Louis,  as  they  drove  home 
together  under  the  stars, 
"why  do  you  come  like 
this?  A  beggar?  You 
are  no  beggar.  What  is 
the  matter?" 

"  Ah !  Louis,  I  was  in 
deed  a  beggar,  a  veritable 
beggar,  until  the  luck 
turned  only  a  few  weeks 
ago.  And  I  thought  that 
I  would  see,  1  am  ashamed 


to  confess  it,  how  you  would  receive  your 
brother  as  he  was,  a  beggar.  And  when  you 
struck  me,  there  on  the  bridge,  I  thought,  for 
a  moment,  that  you  were  casting  me  off.  And 
I  was  angry.  Ah,  how  angry  I  was !  But  you 
have  forgiven  me,  my  brother.  Louis,  you 
are  a  better  man  than  I.  It  is  you  who  have 
the  faithful  heart." 

Louis  made  no  reply,  but  from  the  valley 
beneath  came  the  voice  of  the  river  speaking 
to  Napoleon  in  the  old,  familiar  language, 
while  far  above  in  the  dark  fir-trees  a  summer 
breeze  made  music  such  as  he  loved  to  hear. 
Napoleon  was  glad  that  he  had  come  back, 
after  long  wanderings,  to  his  native  land. 

Presently,  w^hen  they  had  climbed  the  last  of 
the  hills,  there  stood  the  old  home,  at  the  end  of 
the  lane,  among  the  trees,  and  the  sky  was  clear 
overhead,  with  thousands  of  stars,  and  the 
silver  crescent  of  the  new  moon  stood  over  the 
mountain,  as  on  many  a  night  in  the  long  ago. 

Napoleon  took  a  deep  breath  of  the  clear, 
cool  air,  the  air  of  his  native  hills. 


"Here  we  are,  Louis.  The  old  place,  it  is 
fine,  is  it  not  ?  And  you  were  expecting  me, 
old  man?" 

4  Yes,  'Poleon,  I  was  expecting 
you  every  day  for  all  these  years. 
And  you  have  come ;  you  are 
here.  It  is  good  to  be  at  home 
again,  is  it  not?" 

"And  Madeleine?"  said  Na 
poleon. 

"Madeleine,  my  brother,  she 
also  has  been  expecting  you,  I 
think." 


